Incunabula Or: The Golden Legend
by suitablyironicmoniker
Summary: A determined curator vies with a private collector when rumors of a rare book surface in central Europe. All human, canon couples...eventually.
1. Prologue

**Incunabula Or: The Golden Legend** - A determined curator vies with a private collector when rumors of a rare book surface in central Europe.

More at goldenlegend (dot) blogspot (dot) com. Reviewers get a teaser of the following chapter...

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters and concepts of the _Twilight _series. They are the sole creation and property of Stephenie Meyer.

* * *

**Prologue**

_Incunabula: books that were printed using metal type up to the year 1500. The year 1500 is more a cutoff date of convenience, marking the transition from one century to the next, rather than signifying a definitive change in the appearance of books from 1501 onwards. The bicentennial anniversary of the invention of printing technology was celebrated in 1640 and it was at this time that the word __incunabula__ first came into use._

The darkness crowded around, muffled and close, the faint scent of death and earth in the still air.

The light that had accompanied me down the stone steps was gone. This far into the catacomb, it could not penetrate. If I had been thinking more clearly, I would have kicked myself for not bringing a flash light. As it was, I could barely breathe much less think, my eyes wide, chest heaving as I struggled for air.

The sharp click was loud in the soundless crypt, utterly distinct from the harsh pant of my breathing…and it in no way resembled the faint scratching noises I'd heard as I rushed into the darkness, doubtlessly rats who could not be disturbed by the bones and dirt surrounding them. A light flickered into life, accompanying the click. Of course he had remembered a flashlight.

Mercifully, it was pointed at the ground, allowing my straining pupils to contract. Reflexively, I lifted a needless hand to my eyes, not wanting to see him here, not wanting his presence to be real. His words echoed in my head. _All's fair in love and war._ I had scoffed when he said it but now I felt nothing but despair.

He had used me. I was only a means to an end…perhaps amusing, but nothing more. At best, I had been a distraction. At worst, I was a complete fool. A dry sob caught in my throat as I thought of the maps on the desk in my hotel room, the missing slip of paper that indicated this very place.

As the glowing light swung up through the darkness, illuminating the figure standing no more than ten feet away, I realized the last thing on my mind was the priceless book I'd been sent here to find.


	2. On a Jet Plane

**Incunabula Or: The Golden Legend** - A determined curator vies with a private collector when rumors of a rare book surface in central Europe.

More at goldenlegend (dot) blogspot (dot) com. Reviewers get a teaser of the following chapter...

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters and concepts of the _Twilight _series. They are the sole creation and property of Stephenie Meyer.

* * *

**One**

_Saint Christopher: a one time patron saint of travelers, he was de-canonized by the Catholic church in the late twentieth century. Despite this, medallions with his image are displayed in cars, worn on necklaces for journeys, and many hostels continue to bear his name. _

I never slept on planes.

It might have been the noise of the engines, the murmur of passengers around me, the faint blare of other peoples' headphones, or simply the impossibility of passing out upright on twenty-three inches of uncomfortable cushion. Whatever the reason, closing my eyes never meant anything other than giving them a rest from my surroundings.

The flight to Prague was short but I'd already spent nearly fifteen hours in transit, flying directly to London from Seattle, guzzling a TSA approved bottle of water while waiting for my connecting flight, and staring glassy eyed at the latest issue of _RBM: A Journal of Rare Books, Manuscripts, and Cultural Heritage_. Though I'd had fifteen hours to leaf through its pages, my eyes refused to settle on the text of the first article, _From Here to Ephemerality: Fugitive Sources in Libraries, Archives and Museums_. I simply couldn't get past the second paragraph, hung up on that word: fugitive.

I felt like a fugitive, my out of office reply claiming I was in Forks rather than jetting off halfway across the globe, my roommate coached to reinforce the falsehood, and the secretary I shared with two other curators completely unaware of why I'd changed my mind about taking a so-called vacation.

I shook my head, resisting the urge to rub my eyes. I still couldn't be entirely sure I wasn't on a wild goose chase. If it hadn't been Dr. Cullen personally requesting I investigate, I knew I wouldn't be here, watching the dark sky beyond the small oval window of the plane.

"Miss Swan?" He was always so formal, his voice kind and warm despite the loftiness of his position.

"Dr. Cullen, hello!" I'd been caught off guard by the call, perking up at the familiar voice. I considered Dr. Cullen something of a mentor, and, with a glass of wine in me, a bit of a father figure.

"I'm sorry—I don't have much time to explain so must be brief."

I'd frowned, unable to imagine what could be so urgent that he'd forgo his usual manners, asking after my father in Forks, my mother in Jacksonville, and my roommate who he'd only met once before.

"Of course," I'd allowed, picking up a pen in case I needed to take notes. I was soon madly scribbling as he began to tell the story.

"You're sure?" I hadn't been able to help asking, voicing my doubt despite my respect and admiration for him.

"There is no way to be sure," Dr. Cullen had responded. "Not unless someone with your expertise personally investigates." He'd paused, a tired sigh revealing his anxiety. "I don't know that I'd put any credence to the story or ask you to move so quickly if…"

"If you didn't think Edward Masen might be involved." I'd finished the sentence for him, unable to keep the disparaging tone from my voice. I felt my spine unconsciously straighten as I gripped the receiver tightly. "I'll book a ticket now."

"Thank you, Miss Swan." The warmth had returned to Dr. Cullen's voice.

"Of course." I tried to smile before hanging up but the expression had turned into a grimace by the time I pulled up Delta's web site. I typed in my frequent flier number, used only a handful of times to visit my mother on the other side of the country in Florida. It was a good thing I'd gotten a passport for the wedding she'd never had in Mexico, otherwise my departure would be significantly delayed by having to apply for one.

The plane shuddered as the landing gear disengaged, the whirring sound of the wheels locking into place bringing me back to the stale air of the cabin. If it had been anyone besides Dr. Carlisle Cullen, the Chief of Surgery at the University of Washington Medical Center, board member of the Henry Art Gallery, and major donor, I would have scoffed and come up with some excuse for declining. But I didn't consider him my mentor for nothing; there truly was no other person in the city of Seattle who knew incunabula as well…except perhaps Edward Masen.

Given their opposing values, however, Dr. Cullen and Edward Masen might as well have been different species. I couldn't help sneering, my eyes narrowing as I stared out the window. Dr. Cullen didn't personally own one rare book or fragment. That didn't mean he didn't acquire pieces on a regular basis, often looking to me to do the research to verify the authenticity, value and condition of an item available for sale. Once dollars had exchanged hands, however, he always donated the piece to the university.

Whenever he was outbid, it was without fail the fault of one man, and one man alone: Edward Masen. And without exception, the book disappeared into Masen's private collection, never to be seen by the public again.

The sneer had turned into a full glare, my lips curling against my dry teeth, reminding me that I hadn't had anything to drink in several hours. I sighed, forcing my forehead to relax and attempting to roll my neck to loosen the tight muscles there.

If Edward Masen were on his way to Prague—or, God forbid, already there—that could only mean there was some hint of truth to the story Dr. Cullen had told me two days ago. Edward Masen did not engage in wild goose chases. Edward Masen did not fly halfway around the world on the basis of crazy rumors and unverified stories. As the CFO of the largest investment firm in Seattle, he could not begin to have the time or interest—unless there was a very good reason to personally have a hand in the matter.

I couldn't help a self-mocking smile at the thought that I _did_ have the time. As a curator at the largest university in the city, it might be assumed that I had a full calendar attending openings, drinking wine and eating expensive cheese at galleries and exhibits, discussing theory and humanism with people dressed entirely in black, or writing up biting criticisms.

But I was the curator of rare books, specializing in incunabula. This meant long hours sifting through references to prints and volumes that might not even exist, cross checking sales of ownership to verify dates, and, for excitement, browsing scans of Gutenberg fragments while eating ice cream straight from the container.

My roommate had been disappointed to say the least to find out my job didn't provide an opening into the art world. "You said you were a curator!"

"Of rare books," I'd reminded her as she stared at me with disappointment from the doorway of the living room. I'd been sitting in my pajamas on the couch watching a rerun of _Mythbusters_.

"So no gallery openings tonight?" Alice Brandon was a graphic designer working for Adobe in the arty Fremont neighborhood. She'd probably thought, when answering my ad on craigslist, that she'd found a fellow creative spirit when I'd told her my position at the university.

I'd shaken my head, hoping she'd wait until the commercial if she was going to badger me further about being home on a Friday night. I really wanted to see if it was possible to beat a breathalyzer by sucking on a penny. Not that I'd ever have a reason to know for certain since I would never drive drunk. After all, I was the daughter of a police chief.

The plane touched down with only the faintest bump, the seat belt tightening across my lap as the pilot rapidly braked down the runway. Of course, people were out of their seats before the plane had fully stopped, the ping of cell phones powering on mixing with the chatter of foreign languages. Blocked from the aisle by a blond man with a pony tail, I didn't bother to get up, simply gathering my copy of the _RBM_ and a book I'd grabbed at SeaTac before boarding my first flight. It was some schlocky mystery about symbolism that I'd been too disgusted to continue after the second chapter.

I was tempted to leave the book behind but wasn't sure if, by doing so, it'd get tossed in the trash. Even being a crappy, mass-produced best seller, I couldn't treat a book that way.

Ever since the exhibit, I'd had a strange, reverent relationship with books. From the first editions I'd started to collect despite earning minimum wage as an undergraduate student, to my inability to part with even the most common of novels, the exhibit had changed everything for me.

I was thirteen and visiting Charlie, my dad, for spring break. After his offers to take me to the mall and latest blockbuster had crashed and burned, he'd finally landed upon the idea of going to the Seattle Art Museum. It was the first time that I'd gotten excited about one of his suggestions, despite the fact that neither one of us had any idea what the museum had on display.

After circling for blocks to find a parking place downtown, Charlie and I had finally made our way into the museum. His mustache had lifted with a smile when the ticket taker handed us a brochure for the current exhibit, but only because he was friendly rather than interested in what we were going to see. I'd taken the brochure, tracing a finger over the faded, uneven type that read _Italian Incunabula: Fresh off the Press_.

It was a temporary exhibit, curated from collections around the world. Though the words on the parchment were in Italian or Latin, I'd been irresistibly drawn to the yellowed pages displayed beneath glass cases. My mouth slightly agape, I'd gazed with enchantment at these, some of the first books to be issued by some of the first printing presses, in awe at the idea of history being so perfectly captured.

When we'd returned to Forks, I'd spent hours at the local library browsing the internet on the slow dial-up connection available there, reading whatever I could find about incunabula. I'd been grateful to return to Phoenix where I was able to do more in depth research at better equipped libraries, devouring everything there was to know about these rare books and fragments. My fate may as well have been sealed that long ago day.

I was one of the few students who didn't constantly waffle about what I wanted to study, declaring within the first month of school. Double majoring in art history and library sciences hadn't left me much time for the typical college social life, but I'd never felt deprived, unable to imagine enjoying anything more than I did my studies. So fully immersed in academic life, it didn't occur to me to take a break between earning my undergraduate degrees and obtaining my Masters in Museology.

Finally, the line of people crowding the aisle began to move, shuffling towards the front of the plane. I grabbed my canvas messenger bag from the overhead bin and joined the queue, pushing my glasses up my nose and touching my hair with tentative fingers.

Alice had been appalled to see me leaving for the airport in jeans, a ratty brown cardigan, and a t-shirt I'd gotten for donating money to NPR, the logo emblazoned across the chest. "Please tell me you're not wearing your glasses."

"I can't wear my contacts for fifteen hours, Alice," I'd wryly protested.

"Your eyesight isn't that bad. You could just go without," she'd eyed me balefully from her position behind her laptop on the couch.

While I'd been worried about what type of roommate I'd find via craigslist, Alice Brandon had swiftly felt like an old friend. I wondered sometimes if that was due to her southern heritage; born in Mississippi, she treated everyone with a warm familiarity that was totally contrary to northwest norms. Of course, through living with her, I'd quickly learned that her honeyed enthusiasm barely concealed a sharp, perceptive intelligence.

As her roommate, I was privy to her incisive opinions about the circles she seemed to effortlessly move in. From the tech crowd that made up her work acquaintances… "If I hear one more Star Wars ring tone, I'm going to scream," … to the designers she knew from college… "They don't have anything better to do than try to ban Comic Sans!" … as well as the sorority sisters she occasionally met for happy hour … "If I ever tell you I'd rather be dead than single, can you slap me?" I sometimes got the sense that she saw me and my interests as a relief from her world of image and aesthetics…though that didn't stop her from trying to bring some concept of appearance into _my_ world.

I remembered her warning that I should wear an elastic for my hair around my wrist as I spied my reflection in the glass panes dividing customs from the baggage claim. My brown hair was always a bit wavy and wispy but I could see the vague outline of a halo around my head, indicating it had gotten increasingly tangled over the course of the past fifteen hours. Alice called it the haystack.

Hitching my messenger bag up my shoulder, I mentally shrugged as I clutched my journal and paperback to my chest. I knew no one here and refused to be self-conscious. Besides, I was an academic. We were supposed to look a bit frayed and unkempt.

Just as I was reassuring myself, I felt the blood drain from my face as a familiar figure stepped to the front of the crowd angling around the baggage claim. His massive bulk would have made him remarkable even had I not seen him before, his broad shoulders straining at his navy suit jacket, his curly head easily clearing the people around him.

"Fuck."

"Pardon?" I'd arrived before the customs agent just in time to put myself at risk for a strip search.

"Good morning," I tried to smile, hoping he hadn't heard the whispered curse.

"Passport, please." Fortunately, the agent seemed more bored than suspicious, barely glancing at the picture inside the first page. Alice had told me that they rarely paid attention once they saw the navy blue case of American identification. Having spent a semester in Paris during college as well as various vacations in Italy, Spain and Hungary, Alice had been full of advice as I'd frantically tried to prepare for this journey.

Lazily stamping a random page, the agent handed me back my passport. I tried not to trip over my feet as I headed towards the same baggage claim where Edward Masen's security guard and personal assistant was standing.

I doubted the man would notice me but took no chances, huddling behind two elderly women while trying to keep him within my sight. If Edward Masen's personal assistant was present, Masen himself couldn't be far. I glanced around but the crowd had only grown as people continued to pour through customs.

My mind sped, realizing that Dr. Cullen had been absolutely right. He'd only heard rumors that Masen had abruptly taken a leave of absence and had guessed this might be the reason. I never thought we'd arrive at the same time, though! Of course, Edward Masen would never travel coach, probably seated up front in first class with his own personal flight attendant at his beck and call.

I blushed, wondering if he'd seen me board the plane. We'd only encountered one another once before and not even spoken at the time...it seemed far-fetched to think I'd be as emblazoned in his memory as he was in mine.

The baggage claim grunted to life and began to jerk in a grinding circle, bags sliding through a hatch in the wall to be claimed by the waiting crowd. I anxiously chewed a finger nail, suddenly filled with an urgency I hadn't felt until this moment.

As much as I respected Dr. Cullen, as much as I knew that his belief that Edward Masen was involved gave credit to the story, I hadn't truly thought there'd be anything for me to do upon arriving in Prague…other than tour around a historical European city after verifying there was nothing of merit to pursue. Now, however, thoughts of taking a nap, tracking down a decent meal, or simply enjoying the quiet of my hotel room after fifteen hours of being surrounded by other people sounded preposterous. I had to get moving.

Though I might not have a chance in hell of beating Edward Masen at his own game, I certainly had to try.


	3. Praha

Thank you so much for all of your reviews and comments! As always, reviewers get a teaser of the following chapter...

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters and concepts of the _Twilight _series. They are the sole creation and property of Stephenie Meyer.

* * *

**Two**

_Saint Anthony of Padua: born to wealth, he is petitioned in finding almost anything that is lost. This is due to an incident in which the saint was invoked to find a missing book and the prayer resulted in the tome being found._

I couldn't move fast enough, which was a bit of an issue since I tended to have problems with coordination. Not just hand-eye, but feet-ground, face-inanimate objects, furniture-toes, and ass-floor. Somehow, though, I managed to wrangle my rolling suitcase, messenger bag, and reading materials, and hurry towards the glass doors of Ruzyně International.

I paused as the crisp air hit me, unexpectedly cool for mid April. I reminded myself that I was in a land-locked country that experienced real seasons, unlike coastal Washington, and tried to pull my cardigan more tightly around me as I approached the taxis waiting at the curb.

Unfortunately, trying to grab the edge of my cardigan with the hand that wasn't clenching the handle of my suitcase meant I had to loosen a few fingers from the book and journal I was still holding. As they were slipping from my grasp, I wondered why I hadn't just shoved them in my messenger bag, fumbling as the slick pages of the journal went fluttering to the pavement first. I almost caught the book, awkwardly stooping as I tried to grab it—but it fell as well, thudding to the ground.

I tilted my suitcase onto all four of its wheels before kneeling to the concrete. "Lost something?"

My head darted up and I sucked in a shocked breath as I found Edward Masen looming over me. Despite having apparently undergone the same grueling fifteen hours of travel, he looked as fresh as if he was just heading off to work. His dark suit was unwrinkled, his navy tie tight against the collar of his shirt, his jaw naked of stubble. Had I not seen him once before, I would have attributed the wild messiness of his hair to the long flight. However, unlike my crazy haystack, I knew that it always looked like that.

"N-no," I finally managed to stutter, forcing myself to look away from his amused green gaze. "I've got it," I added, grabbing the book and journal and stuffing them into the outer pocket of my messenger bag.

"Very well then," he responded with the slightest nod before turning to where his personal assistant was waiting with the open door of a town car in one hand. I couldn't help noticing Masen's long stride as he crossed to him in three steps. "Emmett," he acknowledged, folding his long figure into the vehicle.

Emmett, the assistant, stared at me for a heartbeat with the same blankly observant expression he'd worn while waiting for Edward Masen's bags. Without a backward glance, he followed his employer into the car, pulling the door sharply shut behind him.

Sucking in another breath, cursing at myself for wasting time, I waved at one of the many taxis and flung myself towards its door before the driver had fully stopped.

Only when my bags were stowed and the cab had begun barreling away from the airport did I think to cringe at what a sight I must have been. Glimpsing my bloodshot gaze behind the frames of my glasses in the rear view mirror certainly wasn't helping. I closed my eyes, licking my dry lips, suddenly hyper aware of my stale breath and rumpled clothes. Even if Edward Masen had any idea as to my identity, the likelihood that he recognized me from our only other encounter was pretty slim given my current appearance.

The auction had been an invitation only event, held at the Arctic Club Hotel downtown. The art deco interior had been recently restored, the parquet floors gleaming beneath geometric sconces. Because Dr. Cullen was the key note speaker at a charity dinner taking place the same evening, he'd trusted me with attending the auction in his place. I'd been excited but too nervous to mingle with the other attendees, all strangers to me. I'd taken my seat though the auction had yet to start, my palms sweaty around the handle of the paddle I'd been assigned, certain that if I tried to blot them against my dress, I'd stain the satin fabric.

There was only one incunabulum among the items available, the rest a mixture of first editions, Civil War era maps, and a wide array of medals, flags, and insignia. Clearly, the person responsible for the collection had a military interest, the incunabulum being a copy of Machiavelli's _The Prince_.

The murmur of the gathering attendees intensified and I couldn't resist turning in my seat to determine the cause. I squinted, unable to see from my position near the front of the room who was at the entrance, their figures unfocused, features blurred. I'd taken out my contacts after work and hadn't been able to find my glasses before heading to the auction; I was half-certain Alice had hidden them.

A voice broke through the murmur before the figures had a chance to resolve themselves into detail. "Masen, I thought I might see you here!" My gaze narrowed without conscious thought, my lips tightening as I realized the furor was for the one man who had the means to outbid Dr. Cullen tonight.

I turned to face the front of the room, struggling to control the rapid breathing that indicated my temper was near the boiling point. I was unwilling to add to the attention Edward Masen apparently received wherever he went. This man was the reason half the incunabula the university sought to acquire remained out of grasp. This corporate lackey was why, despite being one of the most respected institutions in the northwest, the school's rare book collection was woefully incomplete. This…this _suit_ was responsible for the fact that historical artifacts could never be seen, enjoyed, or used as instruction for the general public.

Seething, I found myself turning once more as I sensed him draw closer, unable to resist a glimpse of the man I had heard so much about.

I was expecting a graying, rotund office drone accustomed to sitting at a desk and in meetings all day. My mouth gaped as I saw a handsome man who couldn't have been older than thirty-five taking a seat several rows behind me. His suit fit his lithe frame perfectly, subtle silver cufflinks shining at his wrists as he shook hands with most of the people streaming past. The smile that tilted his mouth was cursory but still attractive, white teeth gleaming behind shapely lips, the bottom fuller than the top. He was clean shaven, his jaw square, cheekbones high beneath dark green eyes.

I forced myself to close my mouth, teeth snapping as I tried to recover from my surprise. Those green eyes flitted towards me, then away, and I felt a rush of blood to my cheeks, hoping he hadn't noticed me. My brown hair was in a messy knot on top of my head, Alice's satin dress too small for my bigger frame…I mentally kicked myself as I realized I was feeling nervous about my appearance. It wasn't as if I was trying to impress Edward Masen!

I twisted in my chair, my palms somehow growing even more sweaty. Just because he didn't look like someone's slightly creepy uncle didn't mean I could forget what he'd done, snatching up many of the incunabula that had become available during my tenure as curator.

I couldn't resist one more glance over my shoulder, noting this time the immense man sitting at Edward Masen's side. Could the jerk actually have security? I rolled my eyes and again turned to the front. What pretension. What asshatery. The only death threats he had to worry about were from me, and he certainly didn't need a refrigerator sized man to keep my weakling self at bay.

Unfortunately, my cockiness only lasted so long. I was tense with nerves by the time _The Prince_ came up for auction. As Dr. Cullen had instructed, I waited to see who was interested in the book, allowing an older woman with silver hair draped in pearls to show her hand. Once she and someone at the back who I couldn't see had apparently exhausted themselves, I tentatively raised my paddle.

"Number fifty-one at three thousand," the auctioneer acknowledged me with a cool eye. "Do I hear three thousand five?" Nodding towards the midpoint of the room, he continued, "Number one zero seven at three thousand five. Do I hear four thousand?"

The woman in pearls unexpectedly joined the bidding again, her expression disinterested as she waved her paddle. "Number eighteen at four thousand," the auctioneer nodded. "Do I hear four thousand five?" It was so hard not to jump up and shout the price Dr. Cullen had given me permission to bid to, simply wanting the whole ordeal to be over. I waited though, resisting the urge to tap my feet against the legs of my chair like an impatient child.

"One oh seven at five thousand. Do I hear five thousand five?" I raised the paddle. "Number fifty-one at five thousand five. Do I hear six thousand?" He glanced towards the older woman and she subtly shook her head, then his gaze darted towards the middle of the room at an apparent movement. "Number one oh seven at six thousand."

I raised my paddle. "Fifty-one at six thousand five?" It was a question as I hadn't given him a chance to set the price. I nodded, biting my lip, embarrassed to have defied auction etiquette.

Apparently I wasn't the only one, the auctioneer swallowing as his eyes swung away. "Seven thousand? One oh seven at sev-"

I swung my paddle over my head, restraining the urge to jab it at the auctioneer. "Fifty-one at seven thousand five?" I nodded, blushing as I heard a murmur rise from the people around me. Apparently Mr. One Oh Seven and I were causing a stir.

The auctioneer barely managed to keep pace as I attempted to outbid my only competitor for _The Prince_, the words just escaping his mouth before he'd have to start over. The murmurs grew to whispers and pointed stares. My cheeks were flaming but I refused to look around me at the commotion I'd unwittingly brought about by going head-to-head with who I knew must be Edward Masen. My shoulders were hunched but I kept my chin up, refusing to be bowed by being the center of attention.

"Do I hear twelve thousand five?" The auctioneer had the courtesy to gaze around the room instead of staring directly at me. "Twelve thousand five?" he repeated, allowing his gaze to flicker over me. My fingers were clenched into a fist around the paddle, sorely tempted to raise it despite the fact that the price had reached Dr. Cullen's maximum. "Going once…going twice…sold to number one oh seven for twelve thousand."

The auctioneer banged his gavel and, without thinking, I shot from my seat. My cheeks were still bright red but I didn't care, turning to the aisle and striding towards the exit. I didn't dare glance at Edward Masen, my eyes fixed on the door. I was so angry, I was certain that if I allowed myself to look at him, I wouldn't be able to resist throwing my paddle at his head.

No, there couldn't be any way he would make the connection between the angry, red-faced woman in a black satin dress and the bedraggled, wild-haired schlub dropping crappy best sellers outside the Prague airport.

I was so distracted by these thoughts that I didn't notice the taxi had reached the Vltava River until we were nearly across, just glimpsing the peaks of the cathedral and the mass of the castle before we were on the other side.

The hotel had been recommended by Dr. Cullen's connection here in Prague, a modest affair on the east side of the river, all yellow brick and narrow windows. "Two hundred crowns," the driver barked. I fumbled for the money I'd exchanged and tried to thank him as he hauled my suitcase from the trunk. "Hezký den," he called before slamming back into the car.

After checking in, I headed towards the elevator the receptionist indicated with an unsmiling nod of her head. It was barely big enough for me and my suitcase and I was reminded of Alice's warning that everything in Europe would be much smaller. I briefly wondered if Emmett, Edward Masen's massive security guard, had been forced to take the stairs where they were staying, unable to fit his bulk into a sliver of elevator.

I chided myself for the silly thought as I ducked down a dark, narrow corridor to my room. The hotel still used keys instead of cards, oversized and bronze in color, heavy in my hand. It stuck slightly in the lock before the door finally swung open. My tired eyes were unable to process the spare room, heading straight for the dated phone sitting on a desk by the single window.

The voice on the other end of the line was groggy. "Who is it?"

"Oh!" I glanced at the watch on my wrist. "I'm sorry! I forgot about the time difference."

"Bella?" The frog cleared from Alice's throat as she continued to speak. "It's okay. I just went to bed." My watch confirmed that it was a few minutes after eleven in Seattle. No wonder I was so wiped, despite the surge of adrenaline I'd felt upon seeing Edward Masen at the airport. "You arrived safe and sound, I assume?"

"Yes. And you'll be sure to tell anyone who calls that I'm in Forks?" I twisted the phone's spiral cord around a nervous finger.

"Yes, Bella, I remember," Alice drawled, her weariness allowing her Mississippi accent to escape in elongated vowels. "Though this Spy vs. Spy shit Dr. Cullen has you up to is beyond me."

"Well, and it may be too late as it is," I admitted, chewing the nail on my pointer finger with worry. I glanced towards the only other door in the room, presuming it led to the shower I desperately needed.

"Why's that?" Alice asked, a yawn interrupting the second word.

"Because I ran into Edward Masen at the airport. I doubt he recognized me, though," I added, hoping that was the case.

"I don't know, Bella. You're pretty memorable."

"Right," I scoffed. "You really are tired. I'll let you get back to bed."

"Call me if Dr. Cullen sends you any self-destructing tapes."

I laughed. "Will do. Good night."

Before making my second call, I knew I had to shower to try and wake up. Though Alice had warned me that toilets were often in separate closets from the tub and sink, I was relieved to find all of the plumbing in one space in my hotel room. Strangely, however, the bath tub had no curtain or door, and the detachable shower head wasn't…detached from anything, simply draped over the faucet without any hook I could see in the tiled wall.

Shrugging, I stripped out of my rumpled clothes and turned on the water. I quickly learned that if I tried to leave the still-flowing shower head on the floor of the tub it would twist and spray water across the bathroom, the lack of door or curtain meaning the floor was soon wet. While it was awkward to soap up with one hand, it was the best method I could manage in my jet lagged state for using a shower head unattached to anything.

Wrapped in a scratchy towel, I made a slightly breathless phone call to the number Dr. Cullen had provided two days ago.

"Dr. Whitlock?"

"Yes?"

"This is Isabella Swan." Before I could explain further, he was crowing into the line.

"Thank God! When did you arrive? I've been making calls, trying to get more information and I actually have a few leads." I was surprised to hear a drawl that sounded uncannily similar to my roommate, the vowels drawn out and exaggerated to my northwest ears.

"Just this past hour. If you give me the address, I can be at your office within…" I glanced at my watch again. "Thirty minutes or so?"

"Alright. Just tell the driver Univerzita Karlova." He then gave me directions from the main entrance of the school to his offices in the Humanities department. Moments later, I was dressed and back in the minuscule elevator, on my way into the heart of Prague.

* * *

More on the Arctic Club and bathrooms abroad at goldenlegend (dot) blogspot (dot) com


	4. Univerzita

**Disclaimer**: I'm just borrowing these characters to see what they think of somewhere other than Forks or Volterra. Reviewers get a preview of the next chapter.

More on the Czech language and Prague at goldenlegend (dot) blogspot (dot) com

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**Three**

_Saint John of Nepomuk: the patron saint of the Czech Republic, he is considered the first martyr of the Seal of the Confessional, the absolute confidentiality of anything learned during confession. Saint John was drowned in the Vltava after refusing to divulge the secrets confessed by King Vaclav's queen._

A whimper might have escaped my throat as the cab sped around clanging trams and darting scooters, the driver laying on his horn as a garbage truck braked in the middle of an intersection. I felt a brief flicker of confusion that the truck's bumper bore a Mercedes logo before I was flung into the interior door of the car and effectively distracted from the sight. People did not drive like this in Seattle.

We'd barreled alongside the river, the cathedral and castle on the hill opposite looming closer as the taxi approached the heart of Old Town. The gloomy gray of the dawn that had greeted me as I exited the airport had given way to pale blue skies, the landscape unrelieved by the green I was so accustomed to seeing in Seattle.

Which wasn't to say that Prague wasn't utterly beautiful. The buildings stacked on the opposite side of the river were like jewels, festooned with swirls and flourishes that vaguely reminded me of San Francisco's architecture…though these structures were likely built when California was still known only to missionaries and tribes. Church spires and domes peeked above the red tile roofs that dominated the skyline, hinting at even more ornate architecture to be seen.

Once the car swung away from the river, however, the narrow streets made it impossible to sense anything other than my immediate surroundings. My teeth rattled as the taxi bounced over rough cobble stones, gazing helplessly out the window at people crowded along the pavement, waiting for trams or loitering at news stands. The headlines swirled before my eyes in a language I didn't understand, the letters adorned with accent marks and other symbols.

The tangle of cars and trams had slowed to a crawl so that I didn't initially notice we were intentionally parked. "Univerzita," the driver announced, tapping at the meter to indicate the fare. I pulled several crown notes from my wallet, wishing momentarily that American money was so colorful, before ducking out of the cab.

The red brick of the university was surprisingly simple, small windows peering onto the narrow street. The interior was equally modest, corridors with scuffed linoleum winding past glass cases full of medals and trophies engraved with unfamiliar names: Jaroslav, Radmila, Jiři. I pulled my eyes from the awards, forcing myself to focus on the numbers written over the plain black doors spaced at intervals along the hall, all identical with no identifying names. Had Dr. Whitlock not informed me of the exact location of the Office of Medieval Studies, I doubt I would have been able to find it.

Though I knew I was expected, I knocked before entering.

I waited, listening to the silence. After a moment, I put my hand to the bronze knob. "Hello?" I called as I peered around the door. The room was miniscule, the forest green carpet worn, a sliver of window doing little to allay the glaring fluorescents above.

"Yes?" The voice was chilly with an accent that resembled the cab drivers who had been my only local interaction so far that day. My eyes drifted from the rows of book cases ringing the walls to the owner of the voice sitting behind a small desk. I couldn't stop from flinching as I realized the person who had spoken was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen.

Alice had tried to tell me, among her chatter about elevators and toilets, that women in Europe were unfailingly gorgeous. To back up her claim, she had mentioned a number of models whose names I didn't recognize that came from this region. Her solution to this was to urge me to pack my contacts as a means of fighting the intimidation I was sure to feel around such a gorgeous populace. I had waved her words aside, figuring I'd be too focused on the purpose of the trip to notice such things…especially given how rarely I registered the appearance of others back in Seattle.

I felt like an idiot gaping at the angelic woman before me but I couldn't make my mouth close. I was relatively certain that wearing contacts would not have made me feel less plain. Luckily, she seemed unmoved by my sudden mental failing, staring at me with the same, cold blank expression she'd worn when I poked through the door.

"Ms. Svan?" At the sound of my name, throatily butchered by her accented voice, I managed to swallow and nod.

"I'm here for Dr. Whitlock." My voice sounded like a squeak by comparison, my American enunciation utterly boring.

"I tell him you are here."

"Uh, thank you."

Gracefully, she rose from behind the desk revealing that she was at least half a foot taller than me, easily approaching six feet. She crossed to a door near the window, knocking briskly. The long blond braid that reached nearly to her waist swayed with her movements, the color golden and rich even beneath the fluorescent bulbs.

The door swung open abruptly, a curly-haired man almost crashing into her in his eagerness. "Miss Swan! You're here! I see you met Rozalina Mihalova," he nodded towards the woman who had quickly stepped back at his sudden appearance, her blue eyes cool above sculpted cheekbones.

"Yes," I acknowledged, trying to smile in her direction. She did not smile back.

"Please! Come in to my office. It's a bit of a mess but I can't wait to fill you in on the details…" He turned back through the door and I trailed after him, struggling to hide my sudden anxiety as I passed Rozalina's slender figure.

Dr. Whitlock shut the door behind me, gesturing towards the battered chair that sat before a large desk. With Rozalina's jaw-dropping beauty out of sight, I was able to take in his appearance as he seated himself behind the messy desk. He looked very much like the distracted professor, his dark blond hair a bit too long and hanging over his forehead into warm hazel eyes. A corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches closely matched this impression though his figure didn't look portly beneath it.

"Did Dr. Cullen tell you much?" he began, his hands twisting before him.

I felt wary at his excitement and couldn't hide my doubt as I responded, "Only that you believed you had information about the Burgundian _Golden Legend_." I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as I spoke, knowing the impulse wasn't helped by how tired I felt.

"I understand it's a long shot," he clearly sensed my doubt, folding his fingers together and then drumming them against one another. "I know my expertise is illuminations, not incunabula. But from what I understand, it's never been proven that the Burgundian _Golden Legend_ was destroyed."

"There's never been conclusive evidence that it's held in private hands, either," I responded, lifting a brow. Dr. Whitlock nodded his shaggy blond head, hazel eyes dropping to the mess of papers and books on his desk. I bit my lip, not wanting to be disrespectful; after all, he was a visiting chair and hadn't come by the position due to lack of intelligence.

"Let me tell you what happened."

His hazel eyes lifted, regarding me intently as he spoke. His expressive hands were motionless on the surface of the desk as his warm, drawling voice described the lecture hall, the chairs half empty in the late evening, the few people attending mostly young and mostly foreign given the fact that he spoke minimal Czech. "Especially when it comes to my subject matter expertise. I can barely ask for a beer, so going on about monastic scribes and varying qualities of vellum in Czech is definitely beyond me," he grinned. I couldn't help grinning back, his smile infectious.

"That's why it was all the more strange when this fellow approached me. Not only was he older—much older…but it was clear after a few sentences that he spoke almost no English." Dr. Whitlock frowned, his gaze dropping as he fiddled with one of the stacks of paper littering his desk. "We were fumbling along with my mediocre German, which I could tell he didn't want to use, when Rozalina stepped in."

"Didn't want to use…?" I echoed, trying to understand.

"A lot of the older generation speak German because it was the _lingua franca_ for generations—even after the first World War."

"The Austro-Hungarian Empire," I murmured, vaguely recalling my twentieth century history. Since my graduate school and professional focus had been on texts that pre-dated the height of the Renaissance, my knowledge of more recent history tended to be poor. I could write papers on the role of Germanic city states in the growth of the middle class but things tended to get foggy after the seventeenth century.

"Before the second war, as much as twenty per cent of the Czech Republic identified as German," Dr. Whitlock added. "And after the war…" His voice trailed away. Despite my weak grasp of recent history, even I understood what he meant. After the devastation brought on by Hitler's annexation of most of Europe, someone from that generation would not be thrilled to speak German.

"So Rozalina helped make him comfortable," I concluded, nodding my head.

Dr. Whitlock frowned in response, shifting in his chair uncomfortably. "Not exactly."

It was my turn to frown, wondering if it was the sleep deprivation that was making me feel so dense.

At my confused expression, he continued, "Rozalina is on exchange from Lomonosov Unversity in Moscow."

My brow smoothed. "She's Russian."

"She speaks fluent Czech," Dr. Whitlock explained, as if excusing her heritage. "But it's the same issue." He sighed, pushing his hair away from his forehead, revealing a surprisingly unlined face. "The man could hear her accent—he knew right away that she wasn't Czech."

"The whole Communism thing," I nodded.

Dr. Whitlock laughed, but there was a strained quality to the sound. "Well…he had a good reason to remember that distrust." His gaze shiftd to the door behind me. "Rozalina," he called, then smiled that same welcoming smile as it clicked open.

I turned in my chair, steeling myself for the lovely visage I knew would be meeting my gaze. Despite this effort, I still couldn't help my eyes growing wide as Rozalina's oval face appeared around the door; the symmetry of her features, the angle of her cheekbones, and the sky blue of her eyes was still devastating. Her expresson was unchanged, flat and somehow annoyed as she peered down at us. "Yes?"

"Can you tell Miss Swan about the gentleman at the public lecture?"

A frown flickered across her pale brow before her icy gaze settled on my face. I tried not to flinch. "He said the monk told to him."

It took me a moment to decipher her meaning. "The monk?" I asked, turning back to Dr. Whitlock.

"You asked him many times," Dr. Whitlock spoke to Rozalina, confirming what had occurred for my benefit. I sensed her nodding behind me. His hazel eyes shifted to me. "We thought maybe he meant 'priest'-"

"He insisted," Rozalina's husky voice interjected.

"He was quite adamant," Dr. Whitlock agreed with a nod.

"Why is that so crazy?" I was beginning to doubt Dr. Cullen's belief in my expertise given I'd spent half this meeting lost and in need of explanation.

"Even claiming to be a priest would have been a very dangerous thing during Communism. Though Stalin's purges were years ago, the party was never in favor of overt religion. The biggest growing 'religion,'" he raised his hands to make quote marks, "in the Czech Republic is atheism." He took a deep breath. "To claim to be a monk…it's insanity." Despite his earlier enthusiasm, I could tell the hint of fear in Dr. Whitlock's voice wasn't exaggerated.

I frowned, trying to process this information, to understand all of the cultural factors I'd never had to consider when lost in my world of dusty texts and rare fragments. "So this man claimed that a monk told him about the Burgundian _Golden Legend_?"

Dr. Whitlock took another deep breath, clearly sensing my resurging disbelief. "The monk said on his deathbed that the _Aurea Legenda_ could not remain hidden."

My mouth abruptly dropped at the use of the Latin phrase William Caxton, the man who introduced the printing press to England, had titled his translation of the lives of the saints…William Caxton, whose patron, the Duchess of Burgundy, had given him the opportunity to travel to Cologne and see a printing press in action.

Seeing my expression, Dr. Whitlock continued. "The monk insisted the _Aurea Legenda_ be found." His hazel gaze was firm as it met mine. "Margaret's _Aurea Legenda_."

Margaret, the Duchess of Burgundy, sister to the King of England.

"Where? Where is it hidden?" My voice was choked, my disbelief faltering.

The returning enthusiasm that had been burgeoning in Dr. Whitlock's expression faded. His hazel eyes dropped to his desk, his hands fidgeting uneasily. I could hear Rozalina shifting on her feet in the doorway, clearly equally unhappy with the answer to my question.

"The monk said it was in the silver church," he admitted uneasily.

"Then what are we waiting for?" I asked, turning in my chair, gaze darting between Rozalina's sour expression and Dr. Whitlock's unhappy stare.

"There's no such thing."

It was all I could do not to huff in exasperation, my hands fisting over the arm rests of the battered chair. Dr. Whitlock leaned forward, unwilling to give up. "The closest I can figure is he meant the cathedral at Kutná Hora."

"Kutná Hora?" I had a bad feeling I was going to be perpetually lost.

Dr. Whitlock grinned. "Silver Mountain."


	5. Kutná Hora

**Disclaimer**: I'm just borrowing these characters to see what they think of somewhere other than Forks or Volterra. Reviewers get a preview of the next chapter.

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**Four**

_Saint Barbara: secretly converted to Christianity and was killed by her father when she refused to marry a pagan. Her legend is found in Vincent of Beauvais's 13__th__ century __Speculum Historiale__ and in later editions of the __Golden Legend, i__ncluding William Caxton's version. Though she was one of the most popular saints of the Middle Ages, some scholars doubt the story of her martyrdom and even her existence._

Because my cell phone was rendered useless overseas, I was forced to wait on the wedge of pavement outside the hotel, shivering in my canvas jacket as I waited for Jasper to pick me up. The sky was pearl gray, the sun not yet fully risen. A brisk breeze whipped off the Vltava and reminded me, like yesterday, that I was not experiencing Seattle's mild spring weather. I consoled myself that at least today my hair didn't resemble a haystack.

Of course, in wrestling with the unattached shower head I'd nearly beaned myself in the eye. It didn't help that my internal clock was going completely haywire; though Jasper had bade me to stay awake as late as I could, I'd fallen face first onto the narrow bed upon returning to my hotel room. I had no one but myself to blame for the fact that I'd woken up, bright and raring to go, at one in the morning. Though I'd remained in bed, eyes stubbornly closed, sleep had eluded me until the alarm on my cell went off at six.

After the shower that had felt more like wrestling with an aggravated snake, coffee and breakfast could only improve the morning. I tried to hide my disappointment as I found the buffet, chastising myself for expecting a typical American spread of bagels, muffins, eighteen types of tea, and maybe oatmeal. Though there was only one other person in the brightly lit room, I didn't want to come across as a gauche tourist, resolutely filling my plate with a hard boiled egg, several slices of salami, and a roll speckled with cardamom. I couldn't make myself drink the coffee, though, the black liquid swimming with grounds. The orange juice I grabbed instead turned out to be Tang.

Lunch the day before seemed like a gourmet feast by comparison. "I thought I'd eat back at my hotel—"

"Nonsense!" Dr. Whitlock actually looked offended.

"Really, Dr. Whitlock, it's no—"

"Please. Call me Jasper." The kindness in his hazel eyes made it impossible to refuse this request, despite my usual antisocial tendencies. "And you must come to lunch with Rozalina and me." I blinked hard, fighting the urge to make excuses and take refuge in the quiet of my hotel room, especially given the threat of Rozalina's chilly presence. "I won't take 'no' for an answer," Jasper grinned.

"Okay, okay."

He nodded his head excitedly at my acquiescence. "If you didn't notice on your way here, half of Staré Město doesn't allow cars—and the bits that do are absolutely clogged with traffic." He shuffled several stacks of paper from one side of his desk to the other. "So we'll walk to Malá Strana…and that'll give you a chance to see some of the more notable landmarks en route."

It wasn't until we had departed the winding, low-lit corridors of the university that Jasper's explanation, peppered with Czech place names, became clear. The university itself was mere steps from Staroměstské náměstí, or Old Town Square, the words rolling so easily from Rozalina's lips that I blushed when I lamely tried to repeat it. Luckily, the square itself was such a distraction that I soon forgot my embarrassment, gaping at the beauty of the architecture around me.

Týn Cathedral loomed behind us, the multiple points of the double steeple like swords against the sky. The golden Virgin Mary in the center gable dully glowed against the dark stones. Before us, the contemporary monument to Jan Hus was aflutter with pigeons, the green tinge of the copper reminding me of the Statue of Liberty. Though he'd been burned at the stake centuries before, Jasper explained that it was Hus' legacy as a dissident that appealed to modern Czechs, living in a region constantly subjugated by others. A crowd of tourists clustered before the famous astronomical clock but we turned right before it came into sight and I didn't have the energy to insist on seeing it. As it was, I was so agog at my surroundings that I nearly tripped three times over the rough, centuries-worn cobblestones. If Seattle had such sidewalks and streets, I'd have sprained my ankle many times over.

Jasper was better than any bored tour guide, brightly explaining that Týn Cathedral dated from the 1300s with a pipe organ that dated from the 1600s. I was still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that people had been listening to music beneath its roof at the same time that the Pilgrims were arriving in Massachusetts, when we rounded a corner clogged with tourists and came to Charles Bridge.

I was an academic so it wasn't as if I'd failed to cram in a small amount of research after buying my plane ticket to Prague. But it was one thing to glance at flat pictures on a computer monitor while wildly stuffing my bags with clothes, and quite another to find myself standing before a gated Gothic tower resembling something out of a Tim Burton movie—and to realize in mid-stare that I was getting the influences backwards…the ominous tower of gray stone had influenced the fancifully dark film director, not the other way around.

Despite the crowds of tourists pouring past, despite the terrible shops bursting with postcards and cheesy t-shirts, despite Rozalina's annoyed stare, I couldn't help my wide-eyed wonder. We crossed beneath the tower that had once served as a defensive entrance to the Old Town, emerging from its shadow onto one of the oldest bridges in the world.

I recognized some of the saints memorialized in Baroque statues at regular intervals along the length of the bridge but it was almost impossible to divide my attention between them and the district rising before me. "Malá Strana," Jasper pointed to the red roofed buildings crowded on either side of the Gothic tower at the opposite end of the bridge. Beyond them, the green of a gentle hill sloped above, a structure that resembled a miniature Eiffel Tower crowning the top. And to the right of this, the details of the castle and Saint Vitus Cathedral were coming into focus.

All too soon, the bridge was behind us, the narrow lanes of Malá Strana concealing the drama of the skyline from view. My experience with the neat grid of Seattle's streets made the winding, organic nature of Prague a complete maze to me. I knew that if Jasper and Rozalina were to suddenly disappear, I'd be incapable of even finding my way back to the bridge. When I confessed this, Jasper laughed.

"Believe me, I still get lost."

Rozalina led the way to a subterranean restaurant, the door below street level, the lead glass windows peering out onto the feet of passers by. The dark interior was how I imagined a traditional pub might look with long wooden tables flanked by matching benches, wrought iron sconces along the stone walls flickering with weak yellow bulbs. Advertisements for brands of beer I didn't recognize hung between the sconces, the colors still bright due to the low light. I was surprised to hear Jasper and Rozalina order one of these beers of the pretty blond waitress given it was only just past noon. Jasper detected this and shrugged, "Water is never free and beer is often cheaper."

I nodded but given my buzzing lack of sleep thought it best if I stayed away from alcohol for the time being.

Jasper helped translate the menu and I was able to haltingly order beef stew, my appetite suddenly roaring to life at the smells drifting through the air. As I tore into a roll that tasted of sourdough, Jasper filled me in on the remaining details about the old man at the lecture. "He didn't give a name, a card…anything. We tried to get him to stay but he refused."

Rozalina added, "He was southern, I think."

I shook my head, completely bemused at such an odd, random occurrence. Jasper went on to explain his connection in Kutná Hora, a priest he'd contacted through a colleague at the university. "I believe the church there has a few rare books…though no incunabula."

I nodded, trying not to frown in disappointment. I had been hoping to track down a few while in the region that served as the veritable cradle for the printing press…Mainz, where Gutenberg first began using movable type, was only a few hundred miles away.

"We could head out around ten. Rozalina has an early morning class and wouldn't be able to go until then," he explained.

I nodded again. "Do you know if Edward Masen might have knowledge of your contact?" I blew on my soup, wondering at the need for Rozalina's presence. She'd hardly spoken over the course of the meal, her features stony as she speared the shredded cabbage on her plate.

"No," Jasper looked up at me, his brow furrowing. "Why would he?"

I met his gaze, lowering my spoon to my bowl. "Because he's here. I saw him at the airport."

"Fuck."

"That's what I said," I couldn't help a small smile though the situation was not at all funny.

"How could he know?" Jasper stared into space, the slices of roast beef on his plate forgotten. "His…obsessiveness is well-known. I worked on a restoration project he funded—"

"He collects illuminations, too?" I asked, surprised.

Jasper nodded. "The rumors about his collection…"

"Oh, they're not just rumors," I snorted, eyes narrowing. "The majority of the incunabula the university has tried to acquire have ended up with him."

"And you think he knows about the," Jasper lowered his voice though the restaurant was nearly empty. "_Golden Legend_? Do you think that's why he's here?"

"Dr. Cullen thought so," I admitted. "He'd learned Masen had taken a sudden leave of absence from his firm. It was what prompted him to call me and ask me to come here."

"How could he know, though?" Jasper seemed mystified, fingering the glass of beer that had accompanied his meal with restless hands.

"Perhaps the old man who attended your lecture tried to contact multiple people?" I offered, knowing it was a weak guess.

Jasper shook his head. "If he was attending lectures he didn't understand, I doubt he had other connections to the rare book field." His mouth twisted wryly. "Maybe Masen is here for another reason…"

It was my turn to grimace, wishing beyond anything that this was true…but knowing it was highly unlikely. "I don't think Masen would come to Prague himself without a very compelling cause. Like Dr. Cullen, he has curators and other experts who do the legwork for him." I gestured towards myself, a present example of greater mens' minions.

Jasper sighed. I couldn't help covertly glancing at Rozalina, who had remained silent and forbidding throughout the conversation. Though she was studying illuminations, hence her position in Jasper's office, she couldn't be ignorant of the import of the _Golden Legend_. Could she be trusted? Might she have some connection with Edward Masen, some ulterior motive for looping him in to the story of the dying monk?

"While I may have the resources Masen lacks," Jasper interrupted my train of suspicious thoughts, his mouth thin and set with determination. "I have connections he can't claim." I nodded my head, equally determined. Yes, Masen had cash, his wealth apparent in his ability to outbid everyone in his quest to add to his collection. But Jasper had resided in the Czech Republic for the better part of a year; he knew who to call, what strings to pull. Hopefully, it would be enough.

A Smart car speeding north towards Old Town was the only traffic to be seen at such an early hour, electronic music blaring from its windows. I turned to watch it speed away just in time to see a Volkswagen appear on the horizon, a curly blond head behind the wheel becoming clear as it drew closer.

"Good morning, Miss Svan!" I tried not to grimace at Jasper's bright greeting, sinking into the seat next to him with a sigh.

"Still jet lagged?" he asked as I held my hands up to the vents in the dash.

I nodded. "I know I should have stayed awake after lunch but I just couldn't." The one disadvantage to leaving so early was that Rozalina couldn't miss her class to go with us; Jasper's motive in bringing her along was due to her usefulness as a translator. We would simply have to hope that anyone we encountered with helpful information would be able to speak English.

The little car approached the on ramp of the freeway but once we'd merged into the light traffic, I could barely tell the difference—the narrow lanes were almost the same width as the arterial from which we'd come. "This is the freeway?" I couldn't help asking.

Jasper grinned at me. "Welcome to the Czech Republic."

The close quarters of the city rapidly gave way to industrial apartment complexes that looked as if they could house a thousand people. "Post war population explosion," Jasper explained. "Americans built the suburbs. The Soviets built paneláks."

"That's what they're called?" I asked, peering up at the looming buildings. Clothes lines hung from some of the balconies, the drying laundry colorful against the dreary gray of the walls.

"You see them all over eastern Europe," Jasper added. The paneláks soon gave way to rolling, picturesque countryside. The green I'd noticed as so absent the prior day was more evident here, fields sweeping away on either side of the freeway, clusters of houses visible in the distance.

"Even in Kutná Hora?" I tried to roll the 'r' as I'd heard Rozalina and Jasper do when speaking in Czech.

"No, actually," Jasper admitted. "I guess you could call it a depressed mining town." His half-grin when he spoke was confusing; how could he be amused by such a thing? I frowned, thinking of the logging towns on the coast of Washington that had been experiencing similar circumstances since before I was born. The slow death of the mills had meant few jobs, few resources, and a declining population as young people fled to where they could find work. Having partly grown up in Forks, I knew first hand that it was nothing to smile about.

I didn't know how to voice this without coming across as a sanctimonious. Jasper, with his uncanny sensitivity, picked up on my discomfort and spoke, "The mines flooded in the 1500s. Kutná Hora used to be in direct competition with Prague as an economic and cultural center. But between the flood, the plague, and the Thirty Years War-"

I couldn't help shaking my head, realizing how long ago these catastrophes had occurred.

Jasper glanced in my direction, then squinted at the road. "The economic contraction that would have been depressing to witness took place…probably two hundred years ago."

I smiled at that, understanding his humor now. "And now it's just another mid-sized town with a pretty cathedral?"

"An UNESCO town," he corrected. "There's five noteworthy churches in addition to the cathedral."

I shook my head again, not quite able to believe it. I tried to imagine a city of a similar size in Washington—Yakima, Kirkland, Walla Walla—boasting such a thing. "And we're going to the cathedral?"

It was Jasper's turn to shake his head. "Father Petr felt we should meet at Saint Barbara's. I didn't quite understand why."

"Another mystery?" I couldn't help joking, still not quite able to accept that this wasn't all a wild goose chase. A strange old man with a story about a monk on his deathbed…it all seemed so far fetched.

Jasper shrugged. "I don't know how great his English is. Hopefully I won't regret going on this trip without Rozalina." I nodded, though I couldn't honestly miss her absence from the car; I imagined our easy conversation might have been a lot more stilted had she been present. Besides which, the suspicious feelings I'd first felt the day before had yet to resolve themselves…I couldn't quite figure out how to ask Jasper without coming across as paranoid.

Signs passed for towns we were entering and exiting. I asked Jasper how to say their names, trying to familiarize myself with the language. Jirny, Ohrada, Kolín…struggling to remember to substitute different sounds for letters I was accustomed to pronouncing another way, as well as absorbing the additional letters the language employed. Enthused at having an engaged audience, Jasper was so intent in his explanations that he didn't notice my attention had drifted elsewhere, distracted as he turned off the highway onto a narrow road.

Small houses of dark stone with windows framed in shutters crowded close to the road, low eaves covered in red tiles providing angled shade from the sun shining above. The houses snaked alongside the road almost as if the two had formed together, no sidewalks or gardens in between. As quaint and picturesque as the town appeared, it was clearly a place where people lived; laundry hung from some of the windows, freshly killed pheasants swung from the awning of the local butcher shop, and children darted across an intersection, forcing Jasper to brake.

A roundabout circled in trees soon gave way to open sky, neatly trimmed grass leading me to suspect we were approaching a park. I couldn't have been more wrong.

My gaze was trained on a row of statuary on the left shoulder of the narrowing road, the bronze figures vaguely reminding me of those I'd seen on the Charles Bridge the day before. I didn't realize the flying buttresses of Saint Barbara's had loomed into view until we were nearly upon them, the delicate stonework studded with blue sky.

"Here we are!" Jasper announced with his typical grin while I attempted to shut my gaping mouth. He shifted the car into park. "Just another Gothic, fourteenth century church."

"Right," I managed to reply as I climbed from my seat.

"Don't worry," he assured me. "You'll get used to it. Bored, even."

I couldn't respond, gazing up at the delicate moldings decorating the buttresses, the scrollwork of the arched windows, the undeniable age of the weather-smoothed brick. Our steps were muted by the yellow, packed dirt of the pathway circling the church. I was surprised to see scaffolding as we rounded to the entrance, shaking my head as I realized something so old would obviously require upkeep.

I paused, peering up at the contrast of the modern, metal framework against the centuries-old church. Jasper paused as well, turning to look at me over his shoulder, a blond brow lifted in question.

I couldn't help grinning, wryly joking, "Think a restorationist left the _Golden Legend_ up there?"

Jasper scowled in response before turning and entering the shadowed interior of the church of Saint Barbara.

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Cathedrals, paneláks and Czech beer at goldenlegend (dot) blogspot (dot) com


	6. Svaté Barbory

**Disclaimer**: I'm just borrowing these characters to see what they think of somewhere other than Forks or Volterra. Reviewers get a preview of the next chapter.

* * *

**Five **

_Rubrication: the practice of using red ink __to add visual emphasis to particular words in a text or, more usually, to the headings marking the divisions within a text. Quite commonly the manuscript's initial scribe would provide notes to the rubricator in the form of annotations made in the margins of the text. This is important, as a__ scribe's annotations to the rubricator can be used to establish a manuscript's history._

Our footfalls echoed beneath the soaring arches of the church, the sound amplified and echoing from the pale stone walls. I didn't realize at first that I was holding my breath, eyes avidly darting around the surprisingly bare interior of the structure, drinking in the solemn beauty of the setting. The flower-like pattern of of the arched ceiling could have absorbed hours of observation alone. Given the circumstances, I wouldn't have that kind of time.

"Dobrý den!" I jumped at the volume of the voice, echoing much more loudly than our footsteps against the bare walls. A man with a modest expression stood near the altar at the front of the church, tentatively smiling in our direction. Though we were still yards away having barely moved beyond the entrance, I could see that his features were lightly lined, his dark hair peppered with gray.

"Father Petr?" Jasper asked. It was impossible to tell if he was a priest as he wore plain clothes, khakis and a suit jacket that looked slightly too large, his neck naked of the white collar I was used to seeing on men of the cloth.

"Yes, yes." His English was heavily accented but his expression was warmly welcoming, wrinkles flashing around his blue eyes as he smiled again. "Please come with me." I glanced at Jasper warily but he was already moving down the aisle past the polished wood of the pews.

"This is Bella Swan, a curator from the University of Washington," Jasper introduced me, loosely gesturing in my direction without glancing back to see if I followed.

"Dobrý den," Father Petr said again, nodding in my direction. Realizing my reluctance was probably marking me as rude, I nodded and moved forward, whispering the greeting in return.

"Dobrý den." I knew it roughly translated as 'good day.' It was the only phrase, besides 'please' and 'beer,' that I'd picked up in the past twenty-four hours.

"Ah, you speak Czech!" Father Petr's face lit up, his smile widening to show even teeth.

I blushed. "Oh, no!" I had reached the altar, my eyes irresisitibly drawn to the simple candelabra resting on the white table cloth, a portrait of the last supper framed in gold looming above. "I arrived yesterday," I explained, dragging my eyes to Father Petr's figure.

"Her expertise is incunabula," Jasper explained.

Father Petr's expression grew regretful. "I tell you we haven't," he said, inhaling deeply with a sigh.

"I know, I know," Jasper tried to allay the priest's concern. "You explained. We wished to speak with you about another matter."

Father Petr nodded then took a step back, indicating a door behind the altar. "We can go to the sacristy?" he gestured with a callused hand.

"Of course," Jasper smiled, leading the way through the narrow door of dark wood.

Father Petr's voice continued its regretful lament behind me, tinged with genuine apology. "There is one monstrance. All other is taken," he explained, moving around us to enter the room. The low ceiling gave the initial impression that the space was cramped, but it was easily larger than the office I shared with two curators back in Seattle. I could see at a glance that what Father Petr said was true; the cupboards ringing the walls were fronted with glass that made their emptiness all the more obvious. A single, tall chest stood in the middle of the room, the narrow drawers likely filled with vestments and altar linens.

"Taken during the war?" Jasper clarified, watching as the priest approached the single occupied cupboard, gesturing to the jewelled monstrance inside. Without the distraction of the church's beauty, I was able to focus on his appearance. He wasn't much taller than me but was still trim for an age that I imagined was closer to fifty than forty. His dark hair was cut close to his scalp, his forehead lightly lined as if from constant worry.

"Yes and, um," Father Petr paused, then lifted a finger as if asking us to wait. He reached into the inner pocket of his blazer and removed a small dictionary. I felt Jasper glance in my direction but couldn't quite regret Rozalina's absence.

Father Petr found the word he wanted. "Seized," he said with a smile that belied the intent of his statement. "Seized by Communists," he finished, looking up with bright eyes.

"Ah," Jasper lifted his chin with understanding.

"And no incunabula," the priest added, his brows lowering.

"But there is a book, correct?" Jasper asked. I glanced around the room wondering where it could be.

"Yes, but bad…" He paused, flipping through the pages of the dictionary again. "No, no," he muttered under his breath, frowning, impatient with his inability to express his meaning. "How say you?" he glanced up as if to make sure we were still listening. "Ah!" He showed his even teeth again. "Defaced."

I stifled a giggle at the absurdity of his smiling when speaking such negative words. The priest and Jasper both glanced in my direction, indicating my attempt to keep my amusement to myself had failed. "Sorry," I coughed to cover my gaffe.

"It is German," the priest added, as if this were another flaw.

"What book?" I asked.

"_Abbreviato in gestis miraculis sanctorum_." I smiled without thinking at the fact that Father Petr was clearly more comfortable with Latin than English. He smiled brightly back, his eyes twinkling. Jasper's curly head turned, glancing between us with slight bemusement.

"_The Summary of the Deeds and Lives of the Saints_," I broke the brief, awkward silence. "But not an incunabulum?" I asked, wanting to be certain.

"No," he shook his head, smiling regretfully. "Printed in seventeen century."

"Can we see?" Jasper asked, shifting his feet and turning his head as if trying to ascertain where it might be in the sacristy.

"Yes, please." Father Petr gestured to the chest in the center of the room. We shuffled towards it, silently watching as he opened the top most drawer and removed a metal box. From the outer pocket of his jacket, he drew a small ring of keys and inserted one no larger than my thumb nail into a lock in the box.

Though it was not from the era I studied and revered, I watched with held breath as he opened the container and removed the leather bound book. The gold leaf on the cover had faded to a dark yellow, muted beneath the glaring bulbs of the sacristy. "May I?" I asked, unable to restrain myself. There was nothing better, in my mind, than the wonder of a rare book.

Father Petr nodded happily, clearly sensing my appreciation. He stepped back, allowing me to do the honors of turning back the cover and revealing the frontispiece. Though the illustration was somewhat dulled with time, the devotion paid to the image of Saint Barbara was apparent. Her expression was beatific, the crown upon her head studded with jewels, the chalice in her hand shaded to give the impression of reflecting light.

I turned the title page, quickly lost to the printed words, forgetting everything but for the faint smell of leather and dust, the typeset letters swimming before my eyes. The stories of the saints, even in Latin, were familiar to me…but I could not help being as fascinated as always. I looked for indications of the book's age and origins, a habit borne of my profession, eyes narrowing as my fingers brushed over the margins, seeking the faint indentations of a quill or pen nib pressed into the page.

Jasper's voice broke into my trance, asking, "Is this original to the church?" Father Petr frowned, looking slightly frustrated by the question until Jasper rephrased the words. "Has this book always been at Saint Barbara's?"

"Oh, no," Father Petr responded, his voice relieved at understanding Jasper's meaning.

My eyes widened with surprise, reluctantly tearing my gaze from the words on the page. Given the illustration on the frontispiece, I would have assumed that the book was commissioned or purchased by someone within the church.

To my additional confusion, Jasper seemed almost excited by this response. He leaned forward across the chest, his eyes narrowing as he asked, "How did this copy of the _Abbreviato_ come to Saint Barbara's?"

"The book is—was," Father Petr corrected himself, as if sensing the importance of the answer. "Was gift." He frowned, looking away, his fingers fumbling at his lapel as if wanting to reach for the pocket dictionary. "Not gift…"

I glanced at Jasper and saw his brow furrowing with frustration. I blurted out, "From who?" instinctively wanting to make sure we didn't get sidetracked by the priest's lack of vocabulary.

Father Petr stopped fidgeting, looking at me with relief. "The gardener. I was not here…is many years ago."

"The gardener?" Jasper asked, clearly baffled. I was confused as well, having expected him to respond that an acolyte or cleric was responsible for the gift—someone who might have ultimately become a monk. Unlike Jasper, I attempted to hide my confusion, smiling at Father Petr with what I hoped looked like encouragement.

"Yes," he nodded, glancing between us expectantly. "He was gardener for church. Father Tomaš was priest…after German war."

"Is Father Tomaš here in Kutna Hora?" Jasper asked, thinking ahead.

"No," the priest shook his head sadly. "He die…" Father Petr paused. "Many years ago."

I had continued to flip through the book, glancing down to quickly assure there were no notations or other marks in the margins before continuing to the next page. Jasper was about to speak, clearly thinking about how to phrase his question so as not to tax Father Petr's weak English. My gasp interrupted the thought he was forming, abruptly bringing the conversation to a halt.

"Defaced," Father Petr needlessly explained.

The entry for Mary was as ornate as I would expect given her importance in the echelon of saints, though it lacked the colored tinting that first came into practice in the 1600s. The illustration of her ascension took up a full page, liberally detailed with line work and shading. Clouds unfurled behind her figure, shot through with rays from the halo surrounding her lifted head. The shape of her body and feet were hidden by the artful drapery of her robe, the garment almost Grecian in its heavy folds. The black ink scrawling over the entire page could only date from this century, the graffiti as shocking as it was confusing.

"Nicht vergessen." Jasper read the two words aloud, his voice quiet. I couldn't speak, far too taken aback at such an awful thing to react. "Never forget," he murmured, brows lowering in thought.

Father Petr broke the somber silence. "The gardener…he leave _Abbreviato_. Father Tomaš say he write in book."

"This was after the war?" Jasper had recovered quickly from his initial surprise, the words almost clipped in his rush to ask the question.

"Yes," the priest nodded his dark head.

"The gardener was German?"

Father Petr's mouth twisted uncomfortably. "I not know. Not know name…" He paused, frowning deeply, as if trying to recall anything that might be helpful. His eyes brightened, alighting on a thought. "He…" The priest paused, glancing up at us as if to ask for patience as he reached into his coat pocket. He flipped quickly through the pages of his dictionary. "He burn." The priest gestured to his arm. "Burns."

Jasper seemed surprisingly calm with this answer, rubbing his chin in thought. He spoke aloud but it was clear he wasn't expecting a response. "It's unlikely he was German…If he wasn't expelled from the country, he would have been sent to a camp by the Russians or tried for war crimes by the Americans." He was silent a moment before musing, "And with burns, he was more likely to be a war victim than a perpetrator…"

I remembered something. "Didn't you say twenty per cent of the population identified as German before the war?"

Jasper nodded but his eyes were distant with thought. "But most of them were forced to migrate afterwards…"

"Immediately?" I asked, hoping it might have taken several years—that we might have a more solid idea of who this person was.

Jasper nodded with a grimace. "To some extent, it was happening even before the war ended."

"The gardener go in 1948." Father Petr interrupted, somehow having caught on to what we'd been discussing. "Karel Novak is gardener of Saint Barbara—" He paused, thinking of the word, translating in his head. "After. He is gardener after."

"Karel lives in Kutna Hora?" Jasper asked, eyes expectant.

Father Petr sadly shook his head. "No, he die. Two years ago."

Jasper groaned and I touched his arm, understanding his frustration but wanting to be sure we didn't offend the priest. It wasn't Petr's fault that his use of past tense was spotty at best and that we kept misunderstanding his meaning.

The realization occurred to me so suddenly that I didn't notice my fingers had tightened around Jasper's sleeve, my eyes wide and unseeing. "Nicht vergessen," I whispered.

Jasper frowned with concern, glancing from my hand on his arm to my stricken face. "What?" he asked, mystified.

My gaze cleared and I turned to him, struggling to restrain my excitement. "Why is this written on the page for Our Lady? Why isn't it written on the page for John the Apostle, the patron saint of burn victims?" For all of my fogginess about twentieth century history, I had read _Slaughterhouse Five_. "Never forget Our Lady!"

Jasper's lips parted with shock, understanding dawning in his eyes. His voice was low when he spoke. "There's no way it could be there—the entire city was destroyed."

I bit my lip, glancing towards Father Petr. If we said anything further in front of him, we'd completely give away this insight. Jasper understood, his mouth snapping shut, before turning to the priest. His expression was determined. "Has anyone else contacted you?"

It was Father Petr's turn to look surprised, as if even he didn't believe the answer he was giving. "Yes." His gaze darted between us, as if hoping we could explain the sudden interest in his church and its single, defaced book.

Jasper groaned again, eyes raised to the low ceiling of the sacristy. "Who?"

The priest smiled, glad to be able to answer the question. "Mr. Edward Masen."

I couldn't restrain the swear word that escaped my mouth, shoulders dropping with dismay…but Jasper was already moving, bidding farewell to the priest and thanking him for his help before moving to the door of the sacristy. I barely managed to recover my manners and smile in Father Petr's direction before hurrying after, breathless with the implication of what we'd deduced.

Jasper was already halfway down the aisle and I had to scurry to catch up to him. Knowing Father Petr was out of ear shot, I couldn't resist asking, "So we're going to Dresden?"

He grinned. "Right-o, Miss Svan."


	7. Dresden

Thank you so much for all of your reviews and comments! As always, reviewers get a teaser of the following chapter...

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters and concepts of the _Twilight _series. They are the sole creation and property of Stephenie Meyer.

* * *

**Six**

_Mary Magdalene: __few people in the New Testament have been so sorely miscast as Mary Magdalene, whose reputation as a fallen woman originated not in the Bible but in a sixth-century sermon by Pope Gregory the Great. Not only is she misidentified as the repentant prostitute of legend, but she was not necessarily even a notable sinner. Being possessed by "seven demons" that were exorcised by Jesus, she was arguably more victim than sinner._

It took me a moment to make sense of the darkness, the inky gray alternating with bright spears of white—like trees, like the dense evergreens I knew so well from home, dashes against the daylight barely breaking through. I was moving through them though my feet weren't touching the ground, flying by too fast to make out the rough grain of bark or sparkle of rain on the pine needles.

"…you think gardener is monk?" Words filtered through the murk, muted and garbled as though being heard through water.

"…long shot…the only lead…" Color momentarily infused the light darting through the trees, glimpses of red, garish and bold, like a lipstick I would never wear.

"…Frauenkirche...everything gone…" The trees continued to fly by, black and white alternating like a light switch being shut on and off in a darkened room. Though I knew I'd left Seattle only two days before, I was filled with a sudden longing for home…but not for the city…rather, the Olympic peninsula where I'd spent my final years of high school and every summer before then. The drenched forests reached right up to the back porch of my father's house, a living, breathing thing filled with soft noises and amazing sights and smells.

"…must investigate…Masen following…" The grass had long been overtaken by moss, like velvet beneath my bare feet, a narrow trail winding away into the deeper woods, disappearing into shadows. My father had warned me from wandering too far in the past but I couldn't resist following the narrow path now, inexplicably drawn toward the darkness.

"…let her sleep…jet lagged…" Clover the size of my palm grew along the path edge, ferns springing up beyond, fronds curling as high as my waist. Everything was oversized in a temperate rain forest, their cousins on the other side of the mountains spindly and dainty by comparison. I longed to stop, to sit and think, but something was propelling me forward.

"Bella?" My head nodded but not of my own volition, the car braking and forcing my body forward against the restraint of my seat belt.

"Bella? We're nearly at the border," Jasper's voice broke through the darkness and I struggled to open my eyes. They felt heavier than anchors.

"I cannot find your passport," Rozalina's gruff voice brought me back to the present, to the confines of Jasper's small Volkswagen, speeding towards the German border.

"Huh? Oh…" I felt the coldness of drying drool on my chin and blushed with embarrassment at having so thoroughly passed out in the front seat. "Sorry," I murmured, rubbing at the dampness with the back of my hand.

"No problem," Jasper drawled back, smiling in my direction before returning his attention to the road. "Just wanted you to be awake for border control."

"Of course," I managed, turning in my seat to see Rozalina stiffly lodged next to the bag I'd hurriedly packed upon the return to Prague. Jasper had a lecture he couldn't cancel so had been forced to drop me off at my hotel before continuing on to the Univerzita, promising to return in a few hours so we could head to Dresden.

Despite a lack of appetite, I'd used the time to guzzle a Coke and eat a sandwich I'd found at a deli down the road from my hotel, the simple ham and mayonnaise surprisingly delicious after the disappointing breakfast. It was too late to call Alice to check in so I'd shoved a few things in a bag and tried to occupy myself until Jasper was ready. I was surprised to see Rozalina in the back seat when he finally arrived; I thought Jasper had studied in Berlin in the past and was fluent in German.

"She has friends in Dresden and might be able to help with research," he'd explained before I'd formed a question. I'd smiled tightly, still not sure how to justify my continuing reservations about her involvement.

"If you'll hand me the bag," I asked, reaching between the seats to the back of the car. Rozalina helpfully handed it over though the expression on her face gave away nothing, her full lips a straight, unyielding line, blue eyes disinterested.

Neon signs flashed past, capturing my attention before I could reach inside and grab the little blue folder. I stared open-mouthed at the red lettering, glaring against the darkness.

"Holy shit," I couldn't help my shocked gasp, my backpack forgotten on my lap as I gawked out the window. There was no need to speak Czech or German to understand the meaning of the words, 'XXX' emblazoned in giant letters across the side of one building, a shapely neon leg pointing beneath the word 'sex' on the next.

"Yeah, it's unfortunate," Jasper's voice was grim, his eyes fixed on the road, resolutely ignoring the women who stood at intervals along the shoulder.

"Are they…?" I couldn't say the word, trying to swallow.

"Yeah." He nodded shortly. "They're usually from farther east, the Ukraine, Romania. The border control at Germany is tight and they get stuck, unable to bribe their way any further west."

We were going too fast to make out any details, my eyes still bleary with sleep. Even without my glasses I could see their clothes were far too brief for the cool April evening, the sky navy blue with twilight.

"They can't find work in the Czech Republic?" I asked, averting my eyes as another brothel came into view, the front lit up with neon signs in deep crimson.

"Cleaning houses," Rozalina suddenly spoke up, her voice derisive. "They have no education."

"It's the same in Amsterdam," Jasper added quietly. "The prostitutes there are very rarely Dutch. They're usually immigrants, people who thought they'd find a better life in a western nation."

I sighed, unable to look out the window any longer.

We passed through the border with only the most cursory of glances at our passports, the German agent's gaze only hesitating on Rozalina; it was hard to know if this was because of her beauty or her Russian identification.

The sky was completely black by the time the paneláks on the outskirts of Dresden came into view, rising around the freeway much as they had in Prague, looming like monoliths in the darkness. "I made some phone calls before we left but everything is going to be closed at this point," Jasper warned, taking an exit that seemed to angle towards the bright lights of the city center. "I figured we could check into our hotel, maybe go grab a bite to eat, a drink…"

"That sounds good," I was surprised to hear myself say. I felt rested after my inadvertent nap in the car and felt far too antsy to sit in my hotel room checking email and watching dubbed television.

"Great," Jasper smiled, teeth gleaming in the darkness of the car.

Within minutes we had pulled into the garage beneath the Hotel Terrassenufer, a modest building in the heart of the city. The elevator was as miniscule as I expected it to be, though the interior was sleek steel instead of the dated paneling of my hotel back in Prague.

After a few quick words with the front desk, Jasper had room cards for all of us, his hazel eyes twinkling as we parted ways in the corridor of the fourth floor. "Be back in the lobby in ten minutes," he ordered.

I flicked on the lights in my room, exhaling with relief to see the clean interior, the white sheets of the double bed pulled taut, the sky dark beyond the sheer curtains. I tossed my backpack onto the bed and ducked into the bathroom. I looked as awake as I felt, brown eyes wide and bright, my cheeks slightly pink as though I'd just sprung out of the shower. I sighed after glancing at my watch. It was six in the evening and my body clearly thought it was first thing in the morning…I didn't know whether I should be grateful or resentful that Jasper and Rozalina had let me sleep on the drive north.

I splashed water on my face and quickly ran a brush through my hair. I considered changing but realized any attempt to look nice on my part would be useless when juxtaposed with Rozalina's effortless beauty. My simple white button up shirt and jeans would have to do.

I was relieved to see Jasper hadn't changed either, his customary corduroy jacket straining at the sleeves as he lifted his hands and rubbed them together gleefully. "Who's in the mood for a hefeweizen!" Rozalina simply frowned at him but Jasper seemed to take no notice of her usual dour mood, guiding us back out into the city.

Like Prague, the buildings were like dominoes, stacked along the streets without any gaps in between. However, at regular intervals the modern era would rear its head, glass and concrete mixing among the brick and stone, glowing shop signs and advertisements filling the streets with light. I knew I shouldn't be surprised by the contrast, that Dresden had suffered terrible damage during the war that Prague had miraculously escaped, but it was still jarring to see.

I soon found myself in yet another subterranean pub that was apparently near the Universitätsklinikum, the local medical school. There was something familiar about the young, exuberant patrons, eagerly conversing and gesturing at crowded tables…probably because they were of the same caliber as the medical students who attended the University of Washington, overachievers who could be found at the restaurants and cafes through out the neighborhood. The amount of cigarette smoke that wafted on the air was a strange contrast, though, the chorus of German voices mixing with the clink of beer steins and clattering silverware.

"Erich!" I'd never seen Rozalina smile and it was a devastating sight to see. Perfectly aligned teeth flashed behind full lips, her blue eyes bright as she found one of the friends she apparently knew from the area. Erich was tall and thin, his arms lanky as he hugged Rozalina and gestured for us to sit at his table. His blue eyes were friendly behind his glasses as he nodded to me in greeting, his black hair slightly thinning at the crown. He and Rozalina soon fell into chattering German that Jasper occasionally contributed to while I tried to preoccupy myself with people watching.

Jasper did his best not to leave me entirely out of the loop, quietly translating the gist of the conversation…but it wasn't necessarily interesting to me, a mix of gossip about people I didn't know and criticism of the quality of vodka in Germany. I tried not to be discouraged when the lamb chop I ordered arrived covered in ketchup, surreptitiously attempting to scrape away the sweet red condiment and salvage a few bites. Jasper just nodded as if this was to be expected, biting into his beef-filled pita with enthusiasm.

"Ready for more?" he asked after finishing his pint of hefeweizen. I opened my mouth to offer some weak excuse for going back to the hotel despite the fact that I was more awake than ever. Did I really want to stick around and listen to conversation I didn't understand, though? Sensing my mixed feelings, Jasper jumped up, throwing an arm around my shoulders.

"Come on, Miss Svan! You won't regret it!" As always, his infectious grin was impossible to refuse, nodding my head reluctantly. He so reminded me of Alice sometimes.

"Okay. But not too late." After all, we had research to do in the morning…as weak as our lead might be.

"Of course!" Jasper cried.

We headed in the direction I thought we'd originally started out from but turned left on a narrow lane. I was surprised to suddenly see a dark expanse of water stretch out before us, stumbling over nothing in particular in my distraction. "The Elbe River," Jasper announced, gesturing widely. Rozalina and Erich were several steps ahead of us and took no notice, soon ducking through another door that was well below street level.

The room that greeted my eyes looked as if it might have been part of a theater lobby, the wide stairs ending in hardwood floors covered in scuff marks and cigarette burns. A bar in the corner was surrounded by people, the two bartenders behind the counter all flailing arms as they served up drink after drink. Chairs that looked as if they came from a theater bordered the periphery of the room, the material a red velvet that had seen better days, the arm rests broken in places. Nonetheless, people squeezed two to a chair or perched on each others laps—it was the only seating in the bar.

Archways at either end of the room led into darker spaces from which music pulsed, the faint flash of an arm in a spotlight indicating this was where the dancing took place. "What do you want?" Rozalina raised her voice to be heard over the din, inclining her blond head towards Erich, who was already making his way to the bar.

I didn't know if I could drink another beer; the one I'd had with dinner was giving me a sloshy, full sensation though I'd barely touched my ketchup covered lamp chop. "A vodka tonic?"

Rozalina turned back towards Erich, shouting my request into his ear. In the meantime, I trotted after Jasper as he investigated the other rooms, his curly head ducking through the archways, hazel eyes bright with curiosity. I found myself lingering on the threshold of the second room, filled with sudden wistfulness as I watched the young people laughing and drinking in the cavern-like shadows. I didn't doubt that many of them were students, faces unlined and mischievous, talking with such animation, throwing back drinks without a care in the world. It was such a different life than what I'd experienced in college. Though I was only twenty-eight, I suddenly felt much older.

I turned back to the main room in time to be greeted by Erich with my drink. I smiled thankfully, then found myself continuing to smile as he kindly made conversation, asking where I was from and how I liked Dresden. "I haven't seen enough of it to have an informed opinion yet," I blushed, wishing I had a more intelligent answer.

"But you came from Prague, yes?"

I nodded, sipping my drink nervously. Though I was sure he could probably care less about incunabula or wild rumors about monks and deathbeds, I didn't want to admit the details as to why I was in central Europe in the first place.

"I don't want to talk shop…" Rozalina interrupted, a faint frown line between her arched brows. "This is how you say, yes?" she asked, blithely changing the subject. "Talk shop?"

"Yes," I smiled gratefully, then soon found myself laughing as Erich explained how he'd thoroughly confused many English colloquialisms, "…looking gift cows in the mouth-"

"I tell Dr. Whitlock we are looking for needle in a farm house," Rozalina contributed her own, inadvertently hinting back to our reason for being in Dresden.

Luckily, Erich didn't seem to notice my alarmed expression or Rozalina's frown, jerking her gaze down to her pint glass as if it were at fault for her slip. "You finished your drink?" he asked solicitously.

"Me, too!" I jumped in, quickly gulping down the rest of my vodka tonic. Erich smiled, helpfully heading towards the bar to get both of us a second drink.

Rozalina continued to stare into her glass. I couldn't think of a single thing to say to break the silence…other than remarking on the contrast between her insanely golden beauty and my plain drabness as we stood side by side in the bar. Somehow, I didn't think that would be much of a conversation starter, though.

"Ich liebe Deutsche mädchen!" A voice drawled loudly, the accent clearly not belonging to one of the local students. I turned my head to see that Jasper had somehow ended up in one of the theater chairs, a joint grasped between finger and thumb, a petite blonde perched on his lap.

Rozalina rolled her eyes and sighed. "Is he always like this?" I couldn't help asking. It somehow didn't surprise me that Jasper knew how to have a good time; Alice had told me enough stories about her childhood back in Mississippi that I'd started to assume every barbecue there ended with a water fight and a keg tossed into a lake.

Something that looked like a smile played around her lips. "When in Germany."

"Here are your drinks!" Erich interrupted the moment that had almost felt like bonding, a pint of beer in one hand, a vodka tonic in the other. "I got you a double. I hope that is not a problem. The queue for the bar…it is crazy!"

"Oh, that's fine. Thanks," I smiled, looking down into the clear, bubbly liquid with barely disguised trepidation. I rarely had more than one drink and this was now my third if I counted the beer I'd sipped with dinner. Alice had once taken me to a brunch where I hadn't realized the sparkling orange juice was half champagne.

"When you said 'mimosa,' I thought you meant going to the garden shop and buying plants!" I'd cried the next day, an ice pack held firmly to my pounding head. Alice had squealed with laughter for weeks.

Within an hour, my trepidation had magically disappeared. I was far too absorbed in a conversation about…something…to worry that I was getting tipsy. In fact, I wondered if the bartender was stiffing Erich on the drinks; I couldn't taste the vodka at all and I was relatively certain I wasn't feeling the effects of my fourth cocktail.

"You see, this is why the present perfect tense makes no sense," Erich was explaining, his blue eyes intent behind his glasses. I nodded, heartily agreeing though I wasn't quite sure what with.

"I keep thinking I should understand what people are saying," I confessed, trying to stay on topic. We'd been standing in the archway for some time now, my shoulder propped against the wall. "German sounds much more like English than Czech."

"Genau—of course!" Rozalina barked, tossing back the remainder of her beer. A hint of froth lingered on her upper lip, slightly white and damp. "The languages are more related—they are cousins. Czech is…" She paused, the frown on her brow deepening. I really disliked when she frowned…which was all of the time. "How say you?" She said something in German to Erich and his eyes brightened.

"Adopted," he provided the translation, staring intently at the beer on her lip.

"Czech is adopted," she finished. Looking up, she caught Erich fixated on her mouth and glared in response. With an exasperated huff, she turned on her heel, storming away.

"Uh," I started, thinking I should make some excuse for her abrupt departure. Her long-limbed stride caught the attention of many as she crossed the crowded bar, brusquely slipping past the knots of people thronging the room. I glimpsed Jasper still buried beneath a giggling blonde, his curly head obscured by a haze of smoke, his mouth parted with laughter.

Erich shrugged, clearly used to her behavior.

I suddenly realized I need to excuse myself. "I'll be right back." I leaned fully away from the wall and was surprised to find that my balance felt a little off. I carefully made my way into the dark side room where I knew Rozalina had used the bathroom earlier. The music seemed louder than before, the people around me lurching in and out of beams of light, features bleary and red with alcohol. My head swam and I reached out a hand to the wall, desperately hoping there wasn't a line.

Though the restroom was little more than a closet covered in graffiti in multiple languages, there wasn't anyone waiting to use it. I sighed with relief when I emerged from the rank enclosure, the smell of cigarettes and beer a relief after the tiny, unclean bathroom.

The music continued to pulse and I belatedly realized there was a man in the corner behind a turntable, headphones covering his ears. To his right, another bar was aglow with faint violet lights, an abbreviated rack of bottles behind the pretty girl serving drinks. I knew I could use a water and made a determined beeline for her, praying I didn't trip or stumble while crossing the dim space.

A hand on my elbow caught me off guard. My mind was unable to process whether the grip was attempting to assist me in keeping upright or pulling me towards the dance floor. I jerked my arm instinctively, my eyes trailing from the well-shaped fingers to the exposed wrist and rolled-up cuff of an otherwise crisp shirt sleeve—Jasper's arm would have been in corduroy…and I couldn't remember for the life of me what Erich had been wearing.

Just as I was deciding that Erich had been wearing a sweater, my gaze finally met a pair of emerald green eyes, their expression completely unfathomable in the darkness of the club. "What are you doing here?" I blurted out before I could think, completely forgetting that I was trying to keep my presence in Europe a secret.

"I could ask you the same thing," Edward Masen responded.


	8. A Little Lost

Reviewers get a teaser of the following chapter...

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters and concepts of the _Twilight _series. They are the sole creation and property of Stephenie Meyer.

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**Seven**

_Saint Andrew: in Germany, the feast day is celebrated as __Andreasnacht__ (__St. Andrew's Night__), in Austria with the custom of __Andreasgebet__ (__St. Andrew's Prayer__), and in Poland as __Andrzejki__. A German tradition stipulates that women who wish to marry should ask for Saint Andrew's help on the eve of his feast by sleeping naked that night. Then, it is said, they will see their future husband in their dreams._

I closed my eyes tightly, the music drowning away to a faint whine. Perhaps if I clicked my heels together, I might find myself safely tucked away in my bed in Seattle, the heavy covers over my shoulders, my glasses on the night stand, the alarm set to wake me at seven on the dot. But the sensation of his hand on my arm wasn't going away, the faint smell of cologne joining the cigarette smoke that burned in my nostrils.

Edward Masen was here. He knew who I was. I had just given away that I knew who he was. All of the subterfuge had been for nothing. I opened my eyes but my gaze was trained on the floor, wondering how I could possibly explain any of this to Dr. Cullen.

I didn't realize at first that my feet were moving, that he was firmly guiding me towards the bar. It didn't occur to me to protest, too numb with disappointment and dismay to resist. I sensed more than saw him lean over the bar, the sound of his voice smooth and charming though I couldn't make out the words. A plastic cup filled with water and ice suddenly came into my line of sight; I took it numbly but only managed a sip before his hand was back on my elbow, guiding me between the bar and turntables.

"Where…?" I began, confused—before realizing there was a small, nearly invisible alcove with a battered sofa covered in ratty pillows. Positioned behind the speakers, it was blissfully quiet compared to the rest of the club.

I looked up with surprise but Edward Masen's expression gave away nothing, wordlessly gesturing for me to take a seat.

I sank into the deep cushions, the water cradled in my hands as I continued to stare with undisguised shock at the man I'd considered my nemesis. He sat down at my side, his posture relaxed, a slight smile dancing around his lips. He held out a hand, the smile broadening. "My name is Edward Masen. I didn't have a chance to introduce myself at the auction. You must be Bella Swan."

My eyes narrowed. So he'd known all along. "How do you know my name?" I could guess but I wanted to hear his explanation.

His lashes swept over his eyes as he looked down, a gentle laugh escaping his lips. He withdrew his hand, dragging it through his hair restlessly, before his gaze found my face again. "I could ask you the same question."

I snorted before I could stifle the sound and he laughed again. I felt myself flushing, mortified that I amused him. I knew I was tipsy, knew I probably looked like some kind of stodgy refugee among the young people around me, but that didn't give him the right to turn me into a walking joke.

I went to rise but his hand was on my arm again, his expression concerned. "You aren't getting another drink, are you?"

"No," I blurted, then, annoyed, "What do you care?"

His eyes flickered, the smile over his lips tightening. "It's surprising you choose to drink vodka in a country known for its beer."

I turned my head to stare at him more fully, unable to believe the direction of this conversation. "'You're lecturing me about my drinking choices?" The words were sharp but I didn't care. "When we could be talking about how we both just happen to be in Dresden at the same time?'

He took no notice of my belligerent tone, laughing again. I looked away, disarmed by his unflappable humor.

The enormity of his presence hit me again, my shoulders sagging though I didn't want to admit defeat. "I may be drunk but you're not getting any information out of me." I realized only after the words left my mouth that it sounded pitiful, only highlighting my vulnerability. I closed my eyes, my head still swimming from too much alcohol.

"You don't think I would have any other reason to talk to you?"

My eyes snapped open, staring at him with unabashed surprise. What could he possibly mean? "Uh…" I squinted at him, perplexed. "I can't imagine why."

"Oh, can't you?"

I knew I was drunk. There was no way his voice could sound so provocative, green gaze hooded and intense, unless my sensory skills were completely tanked.

"You're just mocking me," I mumbled weakly, tearing my gaze from his confusing stare, wishing I could douse myself with the cup of ice water. He had no reason to be here, none at all, other than the Burgundian _Golden Legend_. His collection was famous with good reason, his single-mindedness the only explanation for his presence in a debauched student bar.

"Because of you, I won't be able to go to Castle Kynžvart." I don't know why my mind chose to seize on that tangent, my eyes unable to focus as I stared down at the cup of ice water. It was one of the few places that had caught my interest during my initial research. Had Masen remained in the dark about the rumors of the _Golden Legend_, I would have had time to go see the collection of incunabula there. Given his presence not only in Prague but now in Dresden, I knew such a thing wouldn't be possible.

I wondered again how he could have found out about the monk.

"My collection is much better." He might as well have sniffed, haughtily dismissing the repository of over two hundred incunabula—the largest in the Czech Republic.

I peered at him, unable to believe his audacity, his unbearable smugness. "That does me a fat lot of good." He looked slightly startled by the response, green eyes going wide before his brows lowered. "That's the whole problem with private collections. Who gets to see them?"

His voice was cool. "I'm very generous. The best scholars have access. Cambridge and Oxford have a catalog of the collection and are free to use me as a resource at any time. Besides, the conditions are better than many of these drafty, dusty castles with their inadequate temperature control and humidity."

It was the most he'd spoken in my presence and I was somehow unsurprised that it was with defensive pride about his collection. Though I recognized my own obsessiveness in his attitude, I didn't bother to stifle my snort.

"That's all very ivory tower and privileged of you."

Edward Masen's nostrils flared, green eyes blazing with a surge of anger. "Yes." The word was bitten from his lips. "These are very privileged surroundings."

I looked around, having forgotten for a moment that we were in a smoky, gloomy bar. Arms continued to flash in the air as people danced to the insistent beat of a song I didn't recognize, laughter occasionally bursting above the pulse of the music. The bartender moved calmly behind her counter; from the alcove, I could see that her hair was streaked with bleach, her feet clad in heavy combat boots.

I turned back to Masen, slightly reeling from moving my head too quickly. "Touchè."

Unexpectedly, he laughed again. "I'm glad I amuse you," I pouted, unable to meet his gaze. I lifted a hand to my head, acutely wishing I was in my bed.

As if reading my thoughts, he abruptly stood, reaching a hand towards me. "The sooner you start sleeping this off, the better you'll feel."

I considered his hand then looked up into his eyes. "Why did you come here?" I realized as I was asking the question that I didn't simply mean to Dresden; why was he _here_, in this dive of a bar, this tucked away corner on the Elbe that couldn't possibly be of use in the search for the _Golden Legend_?

Edward's mouth twisted, his eyes shifting away, as if understanding my double meaning. "It's…complicated," he finally responded.

I sighed, taking his hand. "Fine, have it your way."

He tugged me to my feet then released my fingers. My lips parted at the withdrawal of his touch but his hand moved to my elbow, guiding me towards the main room of the club. I ducked my head, letting my hair fall over my shoulders to hide my face, praying Rozalina hadn't returned from wherever her tantrum had taken her, and that Jasper…

"Whitlock is otherwise occupied." Edward Masen's voice was uncomfortably close to my ear, my hair stirring with his breath.

I glanced with surprise and alarm at his face, wondering what _his_ motivation could be for keeping our new acquaintance a secret. There were no answers in his eyes, a smirk tilting one corner of his mouth as he nodded in the opposite direction.

I turned my head, seeing through the curtain of chestnut hair that Jasper had yet to move from the theater seat, his lips firmly clamped on some blonde's mouth. A sigh of relief escaped my lips, grateful my poor cloak-and-dagger skills were between myself and Masen alone.

With his hand still firmly upon my elbow, I was forced to match his long stride, hurrying up the stairs to the street and cool night air. I took a deep breath once we were outside, my eyes darting over the shadowed figures that stood around smoking and talking away from the warmth and press of the club. Fortunately, Rozalina was not among them.

"Your secret is safe," Edward Masen quietly said, his eyes fixed ahead as he continued down the narrow street that paralleled the Elbe. I couldn't think of a response, taking in for the first time the narrow fit of his gray trousers, his leather shoes tapping against the pavement. How had he not come across as over-dressed in the club? I didn't know whether to blame the alcohol or his relaxed demeanor, clearly comfortable in any surroundings.

"Where is your hotel?" We had come to an intersection, the river to our right, the bright lights of a main street to our left. I looked in both directions, knowing for a fact that the hotel wasn't on the other side of the river, but completely unsure of which way we should go. The ketchup covered lamb chop felt like a very long time ago.

"You don't know," Masen's voice was faintly derisive, the words a statement rather than a question.

"I think Jasper came this way," I insisted, defensive, turning to the left and heading away from the river. His fingers slipped from my elbow but I refused to miss their warmth, striding down the street with a confidence I didn't truly feel.

I could hear his expensive leather shoes tapping against the cobblestones behind me but I didn't slow, my chin high as I came to the main thoroughfare and looked both ways. The bright green cross of the pharmacy looked familiar, though I wasn't sure if we'd doubled back in our walk from the restaurant to the club…I headed toward it stubbornly, refusing to appear lost in front of Edward Masen. I couldn't begin to understand why he was speaking to me, much less trying to help me get back to my hotel…and given the fact that we were both vying for the _Golden Legend_, I didn't want to appear weak in front of him.

I'd gone several blocks without spotting the unassuming façade of my hotel when I heard his exasperated voice behind me. "Do you have any idea where you are?"

I spun on my heel. "I didn't ask for your help, you know."

Masen didn't pause in his stride, continuing towards me with an annoyed, if slightly amused expression. He spoke as if he hadn't heard me. "Please tell me you know the name of your hotel."

I paused, considering. "It was a lot of syllables."

A chuckle escaped his lips, but he quickly recovered, frowning at me. "Do not say 'fahr—'"

"Fahrvergnügen!" The word was already on my tongue, a sly grin crossing my lips as he groaned. I ignored him as he stared up at the night sky with obvious exasperation, chewing my bottom lip and considering my feet. "Terras…" I began, truly trying to remember. It was doing my swimming head no good to wander around the center of Dresden with Edward Masen on my heels. The whole situation was too surreal.

"Is it the Terrasenufer?" Masen had pulled out a smart phone, his fingers dancing over the keys as he apparently typed something into a search engine.

"That's it!" I exclaimed, duly impressed.

His green eyes lifted to meet mine, a smirk dancing over his mouth. "Then we should be going in the opposite direction."

I sighed at his know-it-all tone but held my tongue, grateful his magical GPS or whatever was built into his phone was going to get me back to a bed. "Very well." I set off down the street we'd just traversed, disregarding whether he followed. Even if he was helping me, I wouldn't allow myself to forget he was my archenemy.

I could feel his presence behind me, silently nodding with acknowledgement when he told me I should go left or right. I was unable to resist a smile when the cream walls of the hotel came into view. I glanced over my shoulder but didn't protest as he followed me into the bright, empty lobby, turning with wide eyes as he stepped into the tiny elevator with me.

"Does Emmett have to ride up separately?"

I wasn't sure where the question came from but it was worth it to see him snort with surprised laughter, the smart phone forgotten in his hand. "No," he finally choked out, a smile continuing to flit over his lips. I couldn't resist smiling back and ducked my head to hide it, wondering what in the hell was the matter with me. What would Dr. Cullen say?

When the elevator doors opened, I rushed to get away from him, wanting to escape the confused feelings that were only making my head pound harder. "Bella-" But I was already stumbling over my feet, my toe catching on a rise in the carpet as I tried to hurry down the hall. I fell to my knees hard, my cheeks flaming at looking even more foolish—something I hadn't thought possible.

Edward Masen's hand was on my elbow, gently pulling me to my feet. "Are you alright?"

I nodded silently, fighting back sudden tears. This whole thing—coming to Prague, the search for the _Golden Legend_, the ridiculous story of the monk—was such a disaster. I kept my head bowed, blinking rapidly, hoping the curtain of my hair would at least conceal the blood in my cheeks.

As if sensing my distress, he cursed under his breath, his fingers tightening on my elbow. "What's your room number?"

I wordlessly tugged the room card from my back pocket, still unable to look up. As when he'd found me in the club, Masen guided me down the hall, my feet senselessly following. We stopped and I heard the click of the card in the lock, the door swinging open with a whisper.

"Here's where we part ways." His voice was quiet and tinged with an emotion I couldn't identify.

I lifted my head, eyes wide as I found his gaze trained on my face, almost…concerned? "Good night," I managed to whisper, mesmerized by the green of his eyes.

"Good night, Bella."


	9. Frauenkirche

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters and concepts of the _Twilight _series. They are the sole creation and property of Stephenie Meyer.

**

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Eight**

_Mary: the name Mary comes from the Greek __Μαρία__, which is a shortened form of __Μαριάμ__. This is a transliteration of the Hebrew, Aramaic and Arabic name Maryam. Mary's most common titles include __The Blessed Virgin Mary__, __Our Lady__ (__Notre Dame, Nuestra Señora, Nossa Senhora, Madonna__), __Mother of God__, and the __Queen of Heaven__ (__Regina Caeli__)._

I woke fully clothed on top of the sheets, one loafer on the floor, the other on my foot. I lifted my head, which rested on the mattress instead of a pillow, and groaned loudly. "Oh my Christ," I managed to mumble through a mouth that felt like it was full of cotton balls and rotting carcass.

I attempted to get up but hadn't thought to shut the curtains—or do anything really—before falling into bed the night before. As such, bright daylight shone through the sheer panels, forcing me to squint as I ducked my head, unable to rise. I finally rolled to the floor, crawling across the carpet towards the bathroom, desperate for a glass of water.

After guzzling what felt like nearly a gallon of water from the tap, I checked my watch and saw it was nearly eight. Alice might still be up if I tried to call now.

"Hello?" Her voice sounded hoarse.

"Shit, did I wake you again?"

"No, no. I just got in from a date with that douche from work. It was one of those loud bars in Belltown—I was shouting all night."

"Douche from work? Tyler Crowley?" I hadn't met him but she'd talked about him often enough.

Her voice was sheepish. "Yeah. I know, I know—I only ever complain about how obnoxious he is but I thought if I went out with him once, he'd finally quit asking."

I pressed a hand over my eyes, trying to block out the light from where I crouched on the end of the bed. "That doesn't seem like very clear logic, Alice," I finally answered.

"We can't all be as analytical as you, Bella," Alice's voice was wry. "Don't worry. It won't happen a second time. Anyways," she was clearly moving on. "Tell me how things are going in Prague."

"Well…" I didn't even know where to begin. "I'm actually in Dresden." I heard a grunt of confusion on the other end of the phone. "And I'm more hungover than I've ever been in my life."

"What?" Her shock was genuine. "Even more than the time with the mimosas?"

"Even more," I admitted. I tried to explain the defaced book in Kutna Hora that had led us to Germany but Alice had never been very interested in incunabula—or anything to do with rare books for that matter.

"Tell me how you came to be hungover," she demanded. I managed a pained smile at the fact that she only wanted to hear the juicy bits.

I tried to trace back the threads of the night. "We were at a restaurant first…Rozalina, the graduate student who works with Dr. Whitlock, met a friend there—I think he's a student at the medical school. Then we went to this club they knew-"

"Jesus, Bella. This sounds like one of my meandering weekends. Did you get back to your hotel okay?"

I bit my lip, my face flaming as I thought of the confused walk home with Edward Masen. Though I knew I could trust Alice, I was unable to confess to that fiasco. "Well, Dr. Whitlock was…kind of…busy-"

"Too busy to get you home safely?" A note of outrage was creeping into her voice, her drawl growing more pronounced the more emotional she became.

"No, no," I tried to protest…my welfare wasn't Jasper's responsibility. "He has every right to have a good time."

"Bullshit. You _never_ drink. He should have been looking out for you."

"I thought you hated that southern gentleman stuff," I tried to argue, to get her to back down.

"_He's from the south_?" My attempt to argue was clearly backfiring. Alice's voice was nearly a shriek and I had to pull the hotel phone away from my ear, the pounding in my head only intensifying. A barrage of curses and demands followed that indignant outburst but I couldn't listen given the volume of her voice. I tried to break in to her rant several times before succeeding, mumbling a few words of agreement before finally begging to go.

"I need an aspirin and a shower. I just wanted to call and check in."

"Fine," she huffed. "If I ever get my hands on this Whitlock character…"

"Good-bye, Alice." My tone was firm.

"Eat something," she called before I'd fully pulled the phone away. "That'll help more than anything."

"Okay," I couldn't help a faint smile.

Forty minutes later, I was showered if not entirely freshened, the faint taste of vodka still burning at the back of my throat. I was glad I'd left my glasses in my bag the night before, certain that given how many drinks I'd had, I probably would have lost them—and been half-blind for the rest of the trip. As it was, I was wishing they were sunglasses as I took a seat in the dining room of the hotel, the April day sunny and bright beyond the windows.

I was biting into a piece of bread covered in a meat that resembled Spam when Jasper appeared looking surprisingly chipper. "Good morning, Miss Svan!" he cried as he dropped into the seat opposite me. "Enjoying the liverwurst?"

I sighed, examining the meat. "At least it's not covered in ketchup," I replied before taking another bite.

"I didn't see you leave," he began, fiddling with his silverware.

"It's fine," I smiled brightly, deliberately staring into his eyes, striving to look as if I had no secrets. "Though my roommate was disappointed to hear you didn't escort me back," I tried to turn it into a joke, taking another bite of the toast and mystery meat.

Jasper had the decency to look embarrassed, his eyes darting away uncomfortably. "I was a little distracted."

"I saw," I teased. "Please tell me she was at least twenty-one."

Jasper smiled, a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes. "I don't do undergrads, Miss Svan." I couldn't help blushing but rolled my eyes, attempting to at least act blasé.

"What's on the roster for today?" I asked, changing the subject.

I discovered Jasper had made several phone calls, contacting a professor of medieval studies, a museum with a rare books division, and the city library. "But I thought we could start with the cathedral." His eyes gleamed, clearly thrilled at the excuse of going to one of the most famous reconstructions in all of Europe. If I was honest, I was a little excited, too.

Rozalina had yet to rise, though Jasper assured me they'd walked back from the bar at the same time. "Believe me," he held up his hands defensively. "She was giving me disgusted looks the entire way."

I couldn't help giggling at his acknowledgment of Rozalina's sour demeanor. After finishing our food, Jasper gulping several cups of milky tea, we set off on foot for the Dresden Frauenkirche.

Though I'd read Kurt Vonnegut's fictional take on his experience of the Dresden fire bombing, it had been many years and Jasper's usual tourist guide spiel was welcome. "Wasn't it revenge for the bombing of Coventry?" I asked, tucking my hands into the pockets of my canvas jacket.

"It's been rumored but never proven," Jasper admitted. We followed the curve of the river, briskly walking on the main road our hotel occupied. Traffic sped by at this early hour, trucks and SUVs entirely absent from the mix of passing vehicles. "It took place over Valentine's day—including the day before and after." He paused, contemplating the pavement as we turned from the river, our pace swift compared to the tourists that were beginning to appear, cameras slung around their necks, sneakers on their feet. "Dresden was known for its churches and museums, not its munitions factories. Masses of refugees were coming here because the eastern front was collapsing; the Russians were closing in on Berlin at the time that Dresden was bombed."

I was silent, unable to comprehend such destruction or the reason behind it. My dad was too young to have dodged the draft for Vietnam; World War II felt like ancient history.

I peered up at the buildings around me, admiring the architecture that reminded me of an entirely Baroque version of Prague, all grandiose and magnificent. "Do you think the monk might have been a refugee?"

Jasper shrugged unhappily. "It's difficult to know. Entire portions of the continent were on the move. If the monk is the man who left the _Abbreviato_ in Kutná Hora, it's difficult to understand why he would deface that page in German of all languages-"

"If he wasn't German himself," I finished Jasper's thought, biting my lip and trying to make sense of the fragments. It didn't feel unlike the research Dr. Cullen had often asked me to do in the past, sometimes examining mere pages of texts that were for sale, trying to determine from the few facts available the age and authenticity. Only, with Edward Masen turning up at clubs to laugh at me, the stakes were much higher.

We seemed to have drifted into a tide of people all heading in one direction, most of them tourists. I shook myself at the realization that I was overhearing English for the first time in several days…then felt strangely ashamed, as if I was eavesdropping. These contradictory thoughts were soon forgotten as Jasper and I came to a wide open square, and, stranded in the midst of it, was the Frauenkirche.

Demolished to rubble by the Allied bombing, it had been rebuilt as an almost exact replica no more than ten years ago. It was hard to believe, with its majestic dome and arched windows, that the church could date from this century. I gaped with the same wonder I'd felt when encountering the Charles Bridge, Saint Barbara's church and Old Town Square…how could it be possible to grow accustomed to such sights?

Jasper had already drifted ahead of me, his curly head turning to see if I was keeping my wits about me and following him through the crowd. I shut my mouth and hurried to catch up.

Unlike the empty, unadorned interior that had greeted us at the church in Kutná Hora, the Frauenkirche was a riot of gold and color. The columns that circled around the curving pews were a swirling marble, like clouds shot through with sun. At the top of each column, a cherub lifted its eyes to the opulent dome, their hair painted dark, cheeks pink. The organ behind the altar was a piece of art in and of itself, the pipes soaring nearly to the ceiling, the shining silver contrasting to the gold that seemed to be splashed across everything.

I was not alone in being awestruck, many of the people around me turning in one fixed spot, staring up with straining necks at the extravagance surrounding them. "Don't see this kind of thing in Texas," Jasper drawled, hazel eyes twinkling. "C'mon. Herr Benedikt agreed to meet us on short notice."

I nodded, not wanting to make us late. Jasper wove through the crowd confidently, approaching one of the security guards who stood next to the barrier roping off the altar and organ. He spoke briefly in German to the man, who then said something guttural into a walkie talkie. Jasper turned to me, "And if you can make this guy fall for you like Father Petr, even better."

I felt myself redden and frowned, confused and then disbelieving. "What are you talking about?" I hissed, not wanting to attract the attention of the guard. I knew it was far more likely than not that he spoke English.

Jasper had turned his attention to his cell phone, scrolling through his messages. He looked up at my protest, his expression wry. "Give me a break. Father Petr was wrapped around your finger." He looked down at his phone again. "All big brown eyes and shyly bookish." His eyes twinkled as he grinned at me. "Not that you need to worry about me—I prefer mouthy blondes."

I snorted, refusing to take his comments seriously. And I wasn't worried; though I'd only known Jasper three days, he already felt like a slightly overbearing brother. I was surprised he hadn't started inflicting wet willies on me over the course of our long car rides. Before I could tell him so, a pastor in a dark suit greeted us, his expression curious.

"Guten tag," his voice was warm, bowing slightly as he shook my hand.

"Gutan tag, Herr Benedikt." Jasper asked if the pastor would mind speaking in English for my benefit. He may as well have saved it; we established within a few short minutes that the church had no rare books much less incunabula, and any information regarding air raid survivors would be documented in government records.

"It was worth a shot," Jasper sighed after the pastor had politely nodded in farewell. "And you got to do some site seeing!"

I flushed, the strange conversation with Edward Masen coming to mind; why I'd brought up Castle Kynžvart was a mystery that could only be explained by all of the alcohol I'd drank. Luckily, Jasper seemed not to notice my remembered embarrassment, leading the way back to the hotel.

There, we retrieved Rozalina before taking Jasper's little Volkswagen to a drab building in a neighborhood that looked almost industrial compared to the picturesque city center. The library was a concrete block that reminded me of the shopping mall in Port Angeles where I'd done my back-to-school shopping. Luckily, the interior was filled with books and computer terminals rather than clothes and accessories.

We soon took up residence at a table topped by a row of computers in a far corner of the building. The monitors looked over the parking lot beyond plate glass windows, the weak morning light providing some relief from the fluorescents above our heads. The surface of the desk that wasn't occupied by the keyboards was soon covered in an assortment of texts, notebooks covered in scribbles, and crumpled paper cups half filled with coffee as we all sank into research mode.

Because East Germany had conducted a census in 1949, it was possible to check the names against the list of survivors; Rozalina took up this task, her expression almost content as she scrolled through the records, looking for a match. Any such match could safely be crossed off the list of potential candidates; we assumed anyone who was still in Dresden in 1949 could not be the monk.

Jasper was examining any items to do with rare books: records of sales, acquisitions by institutions, sudden disappearances or thefts. He got our attention by exclaiming over a news item stating that the Bodleian Library at Oxford had benefited from the availability of German incunabula in the wake of the war, acquiring twenty-six titles in total…only to read further and see it was referencing the Napoleonic Wars.

Given I couldn't read German, I was stuck with the unfortunate task of examining photographs from directly after the fire storm. I found myself blinking back tears as I scrolled through the images, my breath catching in my throat at the shot of a woman bent, motionless over a baby carriage. I stumbled to my feet without thinking, heading for the glass doors that led to the parking lot.

I swallowed hard as the fresh air hit my lungs, staring up at the sky, seeing nothing. I wished for a moment that I was tougher, then tried to tell myself I'd be inhuman if I wasn't affected by such things.

"Do you want to change?" Rozalina's voice was as emotionless as ever but when I turned to face her, I saw sympathy in her gaze.

I tried to smile, realizing that she meant to ask if I wanted to switch but probably didn't know that particular word. Regardless, it seemed like an appropriate question. "I'm okay," I finally answered.

She gazed down at me, considering, something unidentifiable crossing her lovely features. In a second, it was gone, the rope of her braid dancing as she flung it over her shoulder. "Okay," she replied.

The sky was growing dark by the time we called it a day. Rozalina had dinner plans with Erich and a group of students but Jasper ate with me at the hotel, faint circles beneath his eyes giving away his own weariness. "See you in the morning?" he asked as we came to the fourth floor.

I nodded, waving as I headed down the hall. I tried to stay awake, flipping through the few channels available, numbly watching a few minutes of BBC World for the familiarity of hearing English…the accents made it difficult to truly feel like I was watching the news at home, though. With rugby scores echoing in my ears, I drifted off to sleep.

After breakfast, the three of us returned to the library with a palpable sense of determination. Jasper made follow up calls on his cell while flipping through the various documents he'd culled regarding rare books. One of the librarians soon approached with a forbidding expression, clearly ready to reprimand him for using his phone. Jasper simply grinned charmingly, gesturing animatedly as he said a few words in German. Though she was twice his age, she walked away with a vague smile, the rebuke seemingly forgotten.

I shook my head as I continued to scroll through the photos. More often than not, they contained no images of survivors, simply documenting the loss of life. My eyes were straining partly from having squinted at a computer screen for hours, but also because the images were overwhelming. I tried to take frequent breaks but the unoccupied time was almost worse. My mind tried to process the tragedy it was seeing…and when I forced myself to think about something, anything else, I could only imagine a pair of green eyes laughing.

I knew this was why I thought I saw him in my peripheral vision while standing outside the public restroom at the back of the library. I turned my head at the movement, the tall figure with wild hair instantly bringing Masen to my mind. I shook my head as soon as I realized what I was thinking; even if Edward Masen was in Dresden, there was no way he'd be doing the grunt work of combing through files and images.

I couldn't resist approaching the book case around which the figure had disappeared, simply wanting to satisfy my curiosity. I held my breath as I rounded the corner, exhaling with a mix of relief and disappointment as I saw a thin young man who more closely resembled Erich than Masen. He was stooped over a novel with vampires on the cover but looked up when he realized I was staring at him. I quickly looked away, pretending to examine the shelf in front of me. I was such an idiot.

I turned on my heel and nearly rammed into a pretty red-headed woman standing directly behind me. "Oh!" I blushed and backed away, internally cursing my clumsiness.

Wide green eyes appraised me and I was reminded of how gorgeous women were in this part of the world. "It's fine." She smiled sweetly and tilted her head, the curls around her face dancing with the movement.

It was only when I was back at the computer that I wondered how she knew I spoke English.


	10. Volkspark

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters and concepts of the _Twilight _series. They are the sole creation and property of Stephenie Meyer.

* * *

**Nine**

_Eden: from Hebrew _גַּן עֵדֶן_, scholars debate the origin of the word.__Some believe it comes from a Sumerian word 'edin' meaning 'plain.' Others say it is from the Persian word '__heden,' __meaning 'garden.' In Genesis, the garden is planted 'eastward, in Eden;' accordingly Eden properly denotes the larger territory which contains the garden, rather than being the name of the garden itself. The word has gained a wider use and can now apply to any place perceived as a paradise; and even more widely a state of innocence, bliss, or ultimate happiness._

Jasper swiftly drove this thought from my head by exclaiming excitedly a few seconds later. "I just got a voice mail from Ludwig Güttler!" He'd been on the other line with a professor of medieval studies in Berlin, trying to track down any information about rare book sales.

At my perplexed expression and Rozalina's narrowed gaze, he explained, "He was the head of the society raising money for the reconstruction of the Frauenkirche. He's agreed to help."

"Ah," I answered, still not quite sure why he was so excited.

"He's well connected with the few remaining survivors from the air raid."

My eyes went wide. "Oh, Jasper! That's fantastic!"

"Super," Rozalina agreed, the faintest hint of excitement flickering in her ice blue eyes.

"So what do you say we blow this joint for now?" Jasper suggested, throwing up his hands. "I know I've had enough of going cross-eyed looking at this stuff." I glanced at the screen of the computer where I'd been camped for the past two days, trying to deny my reluctance to continue looking at such images. "Let's take the afternoon off. Stretch our legs. Get some sun." His curly head turned to me, then Rozalina. "What do you say?"

"Okay," my tone was grudging but I couldn't think of a good argument for disagreeing.

"I'll call Ludwig back at the hotel. We can regroup after we've had a decent break and go from there," Jasper added reassuringly, hearing my reluctance. We all stood, gathering our coats and notebooks, and left the fluorescent lights of the library behind.

He wasn't wrong about the sunshine. While we'd been inside, the bright, cloudless day had left the pavement of the parking lot warm. People walking down the street were in short sleeves, a few in sandals. I discarded my own coat once we got back to the hotel, nodding when Jasper suggested we meet back in the lobby at three. Rozalina was already on her cell phone, her voice a whisper as she spoke in what sounded like English to the person on the line. I frowned with suspicion but she was already ducking into the elevator without a backward glance. Sighing and promising myself that I would bring up my worries to Jasper, I headed back outside. Sunshine was rare enough in Seattle that, even though I was thousands of miles away, the knee-jerk reaction of enjoying it while it lasted superseded everything else.

I walked with no particular goal in mind, only trying to avoid the crowds of tourists that flocked towards the Frauenkirche. This led me east, where I soon discovered an immense park that appeared to cover city blocks. Paved paths led in every which direction, blooming trees clearly delighting in the spring weather. I saw signs for the zoo but the idea of simply sitting on a bench and watching people go by was much more appealing.

Given it was just past noon, most of the benches were occupied with Dresdeners on their lunch break, arms exposed to the sun, busily chatting on cell phones or reading books. I finally found one that was empty near a high hedge, half of it cast in shade. My skin had always been stubbornly fair, only growing slightly pink during my childhood in Phoenix…but that didn't stop me from sitting on the portion of bench bathed in sun. After a moment, I closed my eyes. I thought I was mostly over my jet lag but the idea of a nap was suddenly appealing.

In the darkness behind my lids the sound of birds singing, the faint hum of distant traffic, and the barely audible murmur of German was intensified. I sensed someone sit next to me, the whisper of fabric against the bench back, the slight shift of weight settling, but I didn't open my eyes. Something brushed against my skin where the curve of my throat sloped into shoulder, exposed by the loose neckline of the my cotton shirt. My eyes drifted open involuntarily, thinking an insect or leaf must have drifted into me. I sharply flinched as I saw Edward Masen sitting in the shadows at my side.

"Holy fuck!"

"Such a dirty mouth for a curator." I knew I wasn't mistaken this time about the provocative note in his voice, my face flaming as I saw his arm was draped along the back of the bench, his hand inches from my shoulder.

"Do you always just appear out of thin air?" I gasped, trying to shift away. I could feel the blood pulsing in my cheeks and resisted the urge to lift my hands to cool them. His nearness was flustering, distracting, but I didn't want him to know that.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" His green eyes were laughing, his demeanor as unaffected as ever. My eyes narrowed with anger. There was no way he could have simply happened upon this bench—not in this enormous park.

"Does your mother know you spy on people?" I spat out, my lips tight with fury.

Something flickered in his gaze, his expression smoothing as he considered me. His head tilted ever so slightly; even in the shade, I could see the red in his messy hair. "My parents are dead."

My anger left me instantly, the blood draining from my face. "I'm so sorry," I breathed. I couldn't help the surge of sympathy I felt for him.

"They died many years ago." Masen's gaze turned from my face for the first time since I'd opened my eyes, staring out over the green of the park. "A plane crash. Flying to Spain for a benefit. Had I not been ill at the time, I would have been on the flight as well." Though his words were matter-of-fact, a hint of sadness tinged his voice. I resisted the urge to reach out, to touch the exposed skin of his forearm, to comfort.

The cuffs of his starched button-up were rolled to the elbow exactly as they'd been the night he surprised me in the club. The shirt was open at the throat; I noticed as if from a distance that his hair was longer than I would have thought, just brushing the collar. His long legs were encased in trousers that I knew must have a matching suit jacket, the creases like a knife.

"Were you a child?" I tore my eyes from his legs, fighting to think straight.

Masen turned his gaze back to me, his expression without emotion. "No, in college. Like I said," his lips tilted uneasily, without humor. "It was many years ago."

"You can't be older than thirty-five," I said without thinking, echoing the assumption I'd had when I first spied him at the auction six months ago.

The grin that crossed his lips now was genuine, one eyebrow lifting. "Very close. I'm thirty-three." He paused then leaned forward, his hand brushing my shoulder with the movement. "And I know you're twenty-eight."

It took a moment for the annoyance to set in, his proximity so utterly distracting that I realized I'd stopped breathing.

"You _have_ been spying on me!" I could feel the blood in my cheeks again but it was anger making them flame, my heart pounding at his audacity.

"I do my research," he replied, completely unfazed by my outrage.

"So do I," I hissed, thinking of the breakthrough Jasper had made only earlier that day.

Masen suddenly shifted gears, leaning back, his expression conciliatory. "Come," his green eyes were strangely earnest. "Let me take you to lunch."

"Are you trying to be _funny_?" I knew he couldn't mean it…not without an ulterior motive.

His gaze remained steady, insistent and open. "Can't we be two people simply having a meal? Books," he paused, his tone deadly serious. "Are strictly off-limits."

I couldn't help frowning as I stared at him, trying to figure out the game. For once, though, his expression was completely without humor…and if there were any moment for him to laugh at me, now would be it.

"Okay." The word was a whisper, barely audible, but I might have shouted it for the transformation on his face. He smiled so broadly that I could see one of his eyeteeth was more prominent than the other; it was surprisingly, endearingly human.

Bright green eyes met mine as he rose to his feet and held out his hand. "Shall we?" I didn't need his help to stand—briefly thinking that it was a relief I wasn't drunk this time around—but I took his hand, releasing it as soon as I was on my feet.

Masen remained close as we strolled east, deeper into the park. I was painfully conscious of his nearness, mere inches away, nervously crossing my arms over my chest. "You live in Seattle but you're not from there," he stated, gazing down at his feet as we walked.

"No," I answered, grateful for the distraction of conversation. "I was born in Forks, on the peninsula."

"I know where it is," he answered lightly. "Whittier-Veill has investments in the area."

"Is that where you work?" I couldn't help my own curiosity, peering sideways at him.

"Yes," he answered. "The headquarters are in Chicago, where I'm from."

"The midwest," I replied stupidly, then felt the heat bloom in my cheeks at such an inane response. "I've never been," I added, attempting to sound like I knew how to make conversation. This was why I never went to exhibits or other social events.

"You don't travel," he responded. It was strange how his statements were not questions, yet were clearly an attempt to confirm the veracity of the subject.

"No," I answered, trying not to wonder how he'd come by this information. "I partly grew up in Phoenix, where my mother lived."

"But she doesn't live there now?"

"No, she's in Jacksonville," I couldn't help smiling, thinking of how she still railed against the rainy northwest. Summers and holidays in Forks had made me immune to the weather; Seattle seemed downright arid compared to the peninsula. "She prefers the warmth."

"What is your mother like?" I wondered if he was asking because he sensed my affection for her.

"She looks a lot like me, but prettier," I answered. He raised his brows but I stubbornly continued. "I have too much of my father in me. She's more outgoing than I am, and braver."

"It strikes me as quite brave that you're here," he insisted.

I swallowed, unable to answer. I knew he'd meant what he said about books being off-limits and there was no way I could explain my presence in Europe without mentioning my complete fixation with the taboo topic.

Fortunately, we'd arrived at a small, low building in the heart of the park. A sandwich board next to the entrance was covered in flowing script: Volkspark Großer Garten Café. Masen held the door, allowing me to enter first. Inside, small tables with delicate wrought iron chairs were scattered over wide white tiles. Behind the counter, a pink cheeked woman greeted us brightly. "Guten tag!"

Edward Masen greeted her in German, his hand in the small of my back as he guided me towards a table in the corner. I felt myself flush at his touch but fought to keep calm, gazing down at my hands as I took my seat. Maybe I could keep from speaking inanities or blurting out inappropriate things if I didn't look at him.

"What is your father like?" I bit my lip, wondering if he was curious because his own parents were gone.

"Quiet, dependable, loyal." The adjectives came easily, Charlie's tanned face flashing in my mind.

"You're more like him."

"To a fault," I muttered.

"You don't want to be like him?" Masen sounded confused, his voice frustrated. I lifted my gaze, taking a deep breath as I considered his expression. His green eyes were unwavering, waiting for me to speak.

"My roommate would tell you it's not a good thing."

"And why is that?"

I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, not certain why I was admitting this to him. "Because I never go out. Because on a Friday night, I'm usually home browsing-" I stopped when I realized I was about to mention incunabula, biting my lip again. Masen's eyes dropped to my mouth before lifting to the waitress who had appeared with two menus.

He said something to her in German without bothering to open the menu, setting it on the table as if it were a unnecessary. She stepped away, though I hadn't yet spoken to place my own order. When I turned in my seat to get her attention I heard his voice, softly laughing. "I ordered water and coffee for both of us. I hope you don't mind."

I turned back to him, fighting feelings of annoyance. Why was he so high-handed? "It's fine," I lied, knowing my tone was mutinous.

The grin on his mouth only deepened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. My annoyance faded at his smile…before I was filled with a new surge of frustration that his good looks were so distracting.

"Your roommate is social."

Back to the statements-as-questions. "Alice is a whirlwind," I shook my head but I was smiling. "She's a graphic designer so she knows all of these tech people as well as creative types."

"Seattle is the place for that," Edward acknowledged as the waitress returned with our drinks.

I sipped the coffee appreciatively before continuing. "She's from Biloxi so she has that whole southern charm thing going." I dipped the small ginger cookie that had accompanied the coffee in the dark liquid. "We're very different."

"You sound as if that suits you."

I bit into the cookie, nodding thoughtfully. "It does. But then, it's impossible not to love Alice."

"Do you think she feels the same way about you?"

My eyes flew up, surprised by the question. Masen's expression was benign, regarding me calmly. "I-I don't know," I finally stuttered.

"How did you meet?" His gaze dropped, looking down as he stirred his coffee.

This question I could answer. I took a deep breath, wishing he didn't affect me so. "Craigslist."

It was Edward's turn to look at me with surprise, his mouth slightly agape before he snapped, "That's not a safe medium for finding a roommate."

My annoyance resurged. "Thanks for the observation." A line was forming between his brows but I continued before he could lecture me further. "Should I have asked Lauren, my freshman year roommate in the dorms who pretended I didn't exist—to the point that one of her fraternity boyfriends vomited in my bed?"

Masen's lips twisted but I went on, my temper fully flamed. "Oh, right! I could have asked Jessica, my roommate sophomore year who ran up six hundred dollars worth of calls to the psychic hotline and left me with the bill."

His eyes were sparkling. "And junior and senior year?" he asked.

I lifted my chin. "I lived alone." I rushed to explain before he could say something bossy again. "But it's expensive. Not all of us are CEOs." I sipped my coffee, trying to hide my still-flushed cheeks. I should have expected him to react to my rant with calm amusement but it was still disarming.

"CFO," he said shortly.

"What?"

"CFO. Chief Financial Officer."

"Same difference."

He laughed out loud at that, a deep, velvety sound that I couldn't help smiling in response to. "It's a lot less responsibility," he said when his laughter subsided, a smile still curving his lips.

"You expect me to believe that?" I scoffed, peering at him curiously. "I thought you would be at least ten years older." His eyes widened at this comment and I let my gaze fall to my lap, realizing I'd just admitted to having speculated about him prior to meeting him. We'd be treading in taboo territory, though, if we discussed why.

"Because of my…" Masen paused, his voice sly as he bent the rules. "Collecting habit."

I bit my lip, raising my eyes. "And its…" I hesitated as well. "Cost."

A wry smile tilted his lips. "You think I should buy fast cars or yachts instead."

I frowned. For the first time, his statement-as-question was completely wrong and I felt somewhat insulted by the fact. "No, not at all. I can't imagine a more worthwhile purchase." Masen's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me. "Most other collectors in your position-" He cocked a brow and I elaborated, leaning forward. "Able to buy anything they wish regardless of the price. Such collectors are generally old enough to be my grandfather."

He laughed again. "Don't you think it's a good thing that's not the case?"

I bit my lip in confusion. "That you aren't an octogenarian?"

The waitress had reappeared with two dishes of flaky pastries drowning in cream. Masen waited until she had stepped away before replying. "It would be quite inappropriate if I was."

That didn't clarify anything. I peered at him in confusion until he looked away. "I always say too much when I'm talking to you," he murmured, almost as if to himself.

"Don't worry. I don't understand," I replied wryly. Ignoring him and his cryptic statements, I decided to bite into the pastry. I hadn't realized how hungry I was.

"Yum," I murmured without thinking, then blushed at my childish enjoyment of such a simple thing. I didn't dare look up.

For once, Masen didn't laugh, his voice quiet on the other side of the table. "I'm glad you like it. I hoped you would."

I couldn't look away from my dish, determined to quietly finish without making a further fool of myself. Without conversation to distract me, I quickly began to question exactly what I was doing having lunch with Edward Masen of all people. But he had stuck to his promise not to speak of books. He hadn't once asked me about the state of our research…in fact, he hadn't brought up the _Golden Legend_ at all, not even on the night he walked me back from the club when I was drunk and vulnerable. What were his motives? Why else would he bother to talk to me if not to get information about our leads?

I reached for my wallet though a few bites were left in my dish. I wanted to pay and get as far away from this place as possible. Edward Masen was clearly far too tempting a presence to trust my decision-making abilities.

"What are you doing?" My gaze unwillingly darted up at the affront in his voice. His expression was annoyed, lips pressed tightly together, a line forming between his dark brows.

"What does it look like?" I was proud of how calm I sounded.

Masen made a noise that I suspected was a curse, roughly pulling a wad of Euros from his pocket. I flushed, realizing I only had crowns and dollars and couldn't have paid anyways.

Luckily, he didn't notice my pink cheeks—or pretended not to—tossing a bill onto the table and rising to his feet. He gestured for me to lead the way out of the café, his expression baleful. I felt self-conscious walking in front of him and hurried to the door. The sunshine made me pause, temporarily blinded as my pupils adjusted to the brightness outside.

"Oof!" I was thrown off balance as he knocked into me from behind. I instinctively threw my hands forward, certain in that instant that I was going to face plant on the concrete pathway.

Instead, firms hands grasped my waist, effortlessly catching me as if I weighed nothing at all, jerking me upright. I could feel the warmth of him directly behind me, his voice rough against my ear. "Sorry."

"No, it was my fault," I replied, wishing I wasn't breathless. I stepped out of his grasp, turning to face him. "I shouldn't have stopped so suddenly." I nervously tucked my hair behind my ear.

His expression was still dark but…different somehow. "I should have watched where I was going."

I couldn't help a small smile at the fact that we were apologizing to each other. We were supposed to be adversaries!

Before I could speak, a sudden beeping erupted. I realized my own startled expression was reflected in his face, as if we'd both been lost in our own world. Masen reached into his pocket with a jerky motion that seemed out of character for him, pulling his phone free.

His expression instantly went blank, his gaze flicking away as he answered it. "Yes?" I sucked in a deep breath as reality returned. "Where?" I was such an idiot. "Good." How could I forget why we were both here? "Yes, please see to it." The only reason Edward Masen had time to eat silly German desserts with me was because he had experts and researchers doing the work I was here to do. "Thanks, Emmet."

He didn't look at me as he slid the phone back into his pocket.

"What was I thinking?" I didn't realize at first that I'd spoken out loud, the words a murmur.

Masen quirked a brow, his lips tilting with vague amusement. That only stoked my anger. "This is all just a game to you, isn't it?" I glared, feeling helpless as I stared into his handsome face, desperately wishing he would tell me otherwise.

His gaze was cool as he regarded me. "All's fair in love and war."


	11. Frauenkirche Svei

Thank you for all of your reviews! Dude, spellcheck is a *pain* when your text has a bunch of foreign words...

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters and concepts of the _Twilight _series. They are the sole creation and property of Stephenie Meyer.

* * *

**Ten**

_Pietà: __Mary, cradling the dead body of her Son, while not recorded in Gospel accounts, is a common motif in art; called a piet__à__, or Italian for 'pity.' O__ne of the three common artistic representations of a sorrowful Virgin Mary, the other two being __Mater Dolorosa__ (Mother of Sorrows) and __Stabat Mater__ (Here Stands the Mother.)_

Small and white, Frau Marian Oster seemed even more fragile than she might have otherwise appeared within the grandeur of the Frauenkirche. But, according to Herr Güttler, she always insisted on meeting here, regardless of the circumstances. His keen gaze flickered as he explained this, indicating there was much more to this request than he was telling. I bit my lip, stifling my curiosity, not wanting to be rude.

There were few tourists milling beneath the immense dome due to the early hour. Jasper had grumbled at getting up before seven but Rozalina had sternly reminded him that we were lucky to have gotten an interview at such short notice at all. His corduroy jacket looked slightly rumpled, the too-long waves of his hair a bit wild, as if he hadn't bothered to shower. I was relieved to see that at least his hazel eyes didn't appear weary, narrowed with thought as he listened to Ludwig Güttler explain the best means of approaching Frau Marian.

"The requests for interviews are frequent and often the same enquiries are made…things you could know with an internet search. If you have a specific detail you wish to know, please address it early rather than asking establishing questions." I nodded avidly, glancing towards the petite, elderly woman who sat in a pew several yards away. Her head barely cleared the back of the bench. "However, I do ask that you be sensitive."

Jasper was nodding as well, "Of course."

Though his posture was already impressively upright, Herr Güttler straightened further. "You are intelligent people and do not need a history lesson." His intelligent gaze measured each of us, dark eyes sharply considering. There was an expectation there, likely born of the details he already knew about us: professor, curator, and graduate student. Between that unspoken expectation and his appearance…the mane of white hair upon his head, the thick mustache above his mouth, the faint lines upon his high brow…it was impossible not to imagine him as a stern grandfather who would not hesitate to tell us he was disappointed if we screwed up.

Jasper answered adroitly. "We will be respectful first and foremost, Herr Güttler, I promise you that."

The conductor and head of the society responsible for the restoration of the Frauenkirche considered us a moment longer. I couldn't help wondering what he saw, with Jasper in his rumpled, stereotypical jacket, hair falling into his eyes; Rozalina, tall, slim and dismissive of her own beauty in jeans and a puffer vest; and me, equally casual in my canvas jacket, eyes too large with intimidation behind my glasses. Somehow satisfied with what he saw, Herr Güttler turned, leading the way down the aisle, taking us to Frau Marian Oster.

I followed behind Rozalina and Jasper, attempting to ignore the echo of hushed voices in a mix of dozens of languages, to put on metaphorical blinders to the beauty around me. I needed to focus.

Herr Güttler bowed low and spoke in German to the white-haired woman slouched in the pew, her curving posture due to age rather than indolence. It was clear he was making introductions, gesturing to the three of us standing before her. I tried to smile but was sure the expression looked more like a grimace, my mouth so dry that my lips wouldn't move naturally. Between Frau Marian's steely gaze, the fact that the conversation would take place in a language I didn't understand, and the magnificence of our surroundings, I wasn't sure I could speak if I wanted to.

Jasper was already breaking the ice, ever charming, crouching down nearly to his knees to shake her hand. She took it reluctantly, the blue of her eyes faded, the whites yellowed as she stared at him emotionlessly. She finally barked something in a voice that sounded as if she'd spent many years smoking, interrupting whatever Jasper had been saying.

At my apparent confusion, Rozalina whispered under her breath, "Jasper explained we are from the Univerzita in Prague, specializing in rare books. She asked him what that has to do with her."

I couldn't help a small smile at her feistiness and uncanny ability to resist Jasper's charisma. Missing nothing, her eyes darted up to me.

"Und wer ist das?" the smoky voice asked.

Jasper looked back at me, wide-eyed and clearly thrown off by her resistance to his charm, murmuring a response in German. I heard my name and had to stifle another smile that he no longer seemed to recall how to say it without using the joking pronunciation that mocked Rozalina's accent: Bella Svan.

"Svan?" she barked, glancing at Ludwig Güttler with a vague look of disgust, as if silently questioning why he'd asked her to meet with us. Jasper was trying to explain again; I understood some of the words he used, referencing books and the university. Frau Marian paid him no attention, her eyes dropping to the photos I clutched in my hand. "Was sie hat?"

Herr Güttler jumped in at this point. He knew we were trying to research a particular survivor and had advised us to use the photos as a last resort, only if she was completely unable to remember any specifics. I clutched the prints tightly as he raised his hands in a soothing motion, attempting to allay her curiosity.

She snapped something at Herr Güttler, her words sharp, leaning forward slightly in the pew. His expression remained unchanged as she spoke but he did not try to interrupt. When she was finished, there was a brief, awkward silence before Rozalina made an attempt to start over. Her husky voice was surprisingly soothing, her tone respectful as she spoke. I tried not to look surprised at the kindness in her expression but realized seconds later I was staring. Knowing she hated the attention her beauty drew, I forced myself to look away from the loveliness of her face, gazing down at my feet.

Jasper had risen from his crouched position, retreating to my side while Rozalina spoke. Frau Marian answered back, her response short and clipped, her faded eyes dropping to her lap.

There was a pause in the conversation, Jasper's hazel gaze stricken, Rozalina suddenly grim. My head turned, looking between them, waiting for an explanation. Just as Herr Güttler was about to speak, Jasper leapt back into the fray, his tone desperate and deferential.

I was reminded for the hundredth time of my inadequacy as the people around me spoke in a language I couldn't understand. A flash of recent conversation made me forget my surroundings, the faint scent of incense, the pale light filtering through the stained glass windows, the confusion of listening to whatever Jasper was saying. Erich had laughed as he told a joke two nights before, my eyes struggling to focus on him, already bleary with too much alcohol.

"What do you call someone who speaks two languages?"

"Bilingual," I had promptly answered, feeling clever.

"And three languages?"

I had though a moment. "Trilingual?"

"Correct," Erich nodded. "And one language?"

I had frowned, lips twisting. Just as I was about to give up, he crowed, "American!"

I remembered this as I listened to Jasper speak in what he himself had described as mediocre German, the words spilling from his lips in a manner that seemed quite fluent to me. Not for the first time, I doubted Dr. Cullen's wisdom in sending me to Prague, wondering if I was truly being useful. When I thought of how I'd spent lunch the prior day, I cringed, berating myself for my lack of judgment. I had no good excuse for being in Edward Masen's company and I knew it.

Frau Marian's voice broke through my self-flagellation, sharp and surprised. "Gärtner?"

Now this was a word I understood. "Ja, ein gärtner," Rozalina was nodding, confirming what Jasper had been saying.

Frau Marian looked up at the three of us, her eyes wide and marveling as if taking us in for the first time. "Was aus ihm wurde?" she finally asked, her voice quiet.

"Ich weiß nicht," Jasper's voice was equally soft, his brow furrowing with something like pity as he returned her gaze. "War er ihr freund?" I was again struck with the uncanny feeling that I could somewhat understand what was being said, picking up the few words that were similar in English.

Frau Marian was shaking her snowy head, her faded gaze dropping. When she spoke again, her voice was low and somber. I felt completely stymied as Rozalina, Jasper and Herr Güttler listened in rapt silence, desperately wishing someone would translate but knowing to interrupt would probably be perceived as disrespectful. Several minutes passed that felt like an eternity before she fell silent again.

Jasper asked one more question. Frau Marian paused for some time before responding in a voice so emotionless that I thought she must have been correcting a basic fact. Jasper began bowing and thanking her profusely, indicating the meeting was over. I quietly echoed him, murmuring "Danke schön," as we retreated from the pew. Herr Güttler nodded after us but remained at Frau Marian's side. Only when we were beyond the main doors of the church did I allow my impatience to break through. "Tell me what she was saying!"

Jasper, clearly relieved, had recovered enough to grin. "Hoo, boy! She did not like me!"

"You are too familiar," Rozalina had no hesitation in chastising him, her expression as stony as ever.

Jasper just laughed as he began leading the way back towards the hotel, our path contrary to the flow of tourists flocking to the church. "I forget with the older folks sometimes. They are not kidding around about those formal and informal pronouns."

Rozalina simply snorted, her hands tucked into the pockets of her vest. Fed up with their typical banter, I moaned at no one in particular, "Is _someone_ going to tell me what she said?"

Jasper took pity on me, glancing in my direction. "You understood when she asked about the gardener?"

"Yes," I responded, eyes bright at the prospect of any of our research turning out to have a basis in reality.

"Well, after Rozalina fixed my complete fumble of the situation, Frau Marian claimed to remember nothing from the night of the bombings."

Rozalina snorted again though I wasn't sure if it was because of Jasper's faux pas or Frau Marian's denial.

Jasper continued, "I figured I'd make one last attempt, throw everything out there—the defaced book in Kutná Hora, the disappointing meeting with Herr Benedikt—see if anything would stick-"

"And something did," I replied, understanding.

"Right you are!" Jasper grinned. The smile faded abruptly, his eyes falling to his feet. "They thought the church was safe. Many refugees were staying there. The only reason she survived is because she was at the train station when the bombs began to fall; she'd received word her sister was coming to Dresden because the shelling in Hamburg had become too dangerous."

"And the gardener?"

"Immanuel." He turned to me, eyes nearly glowing at learning his name. "Another refugee, staying at the church. She thought he was from Austria but she didn't remember whether he told her so. She also wasn't sure Immanuel was his name."

"He did not answer always when addressed," Rozalina clarified, her expression equally pleased.

Jasper lifted a finger triumphantly. "And he had a knapsack that was always in his possession."

I frowned. "That isn't too remarkable given these were refugees. They were probably all carrying what few precious things they had left."

Jasper wrinkled his nose, his drawl pronounced as he cajoled me in his typical, charming manner. "Now don't rain on my parade, Bella Svan!" He playfully nudged my shoulder as we rounded the corner and approached our hotel. "We've had a break though, by God."

I couldn't help a reluctant smile but didn't want to get my hopes too high. We still weren't sure that the monk was the same man who left the book at Kutná Hora…or that the gardener at Kutná Hora was present in Dresden for the fire bombings.

"How did she know he was a gardener?" I asked.

Jasper paused, and when he continued, he didn't initially answer my question. "She didn't say, but I'm guessing they were sweet on each other."

Rozalina was nodding but her gaze was fixed on the ground. I bit my lip, trying to be patient, to wait for the rest of the story. Jasper continued. "Immanuel took her to the Volkspark, which was a wreck…" He turned to Rozalina but I was barely able to listen, my breath locked in my throat. "Vernachlässigt?"

"Neglect?" she replied.

"Neglected," Jasper nodded in approval of Rozalina's translation of the German word.

I looked away, my skin icy, my thoughts overcome with a mixture of guilt, frustration, and dismay. The secret of my lunch with Masen at that same park only the day prior made my blood run cold.

Jasper went on. "It makes sense. Any able-bodied men would have been fighting at the front. City taxes would have gone towards defense. The public parks were probably a total mess. But Immanuel," Jasper shook his head, softly laughing. "He'd cleared a plot and was tending the flowers there."

"In February," Rozalina added.

"Right," Jasper nodded. "It's not as if it would have been a fun, pleasant task." He smiled again, his eyes alight. "He took her to the park."

"What happened after?" I interrupted his musing, longing to leave the subject of the park behind. "After the bombing?"

"Marian said she saw him once. She was not required to assist with the mass burials—it was being done by prisoners of war and the few laborers who hadn't yet been sent to camps—but she insisted. She wanted to…out of respect."

"And she saw him there?" I asked as we entered the lobby.

Jasper stopped turning to me. "She said she saw him across the pit. But he was no longer handsome."

My eyes went wide and I wasn't quite sure I could speak. I managed to choke out the words. "Because of the burns."

Jasper took a deep breath, nodding. "His _face_ was not burned but he was no longer handsome."


	12. Immanuel

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters and concepts of the _Twilight _series. They are the sole creation and property of Stephenie Meyer.

* * *

**Eleven**

_Septuagint: refers to the Koine Greek version of the Hebrew bible. It derives its name from Latin_ Interpretatio septuaginta virorum_, or "translation of the seventy interpreters." The Latin title refers to a legendary account of how seventy-two Jewish scholars were asked by the Greek King of Egypt Ptolemy II to translate the Torah from Hebrew into Greek for inclusion in the Library of Alexandria._

For the two hour return drive to Prague, I insisted Rozalina sit in front. Given her height and long legs, it seemed ridiculous for her to squeeze into the back of Jasper's little Volkswagen. To my relief, she didn't argue, simply folding her slender frame into the front seat while Jasper started the engine.

I felt a strange sadness as the city center receded behind us; Dresden has been the only place I'd managed to stay for more than twenty-four hours over the length of the trip and I had no idea if I would ever be back. The unceasing pace of our research hadn't given me much time for reflection but as the paneláks on the outskirts of the city came into view, I knew without a doubt that I wanted to see Europe again.

I ducked my head as I was filled with a sudden, intense chagrin that I'd never bothered to travel abroad before. Though Jasper's gaze was fixed on the road rather than the rearview mirror, and Rozalina's mind was clearly elsewhere, I couldn't help feeling a vague sense of embarrassment at the thought. I hadn't done _anything_ really…so focused on my studies that I hadn't even considered taking advantage of the many exchange programs offered by the university, nor used the vacation time afforded me by my job. In fact, I had so much time accrued that I could safely take off more than three weeks.

Alice had often grumbled at me for only taking a long weekend here and there to visit Charlie in Forks or Renee in Florida. "Why don't you go somewhere far away?" She'd throw her expressive hands in the air, blue eyes alight at the possibilities. "Costa Rica, or Thailand, or…Brazil?"

I would shrug, smiling at her enthusiasm. "I love my job, Alice," I'd try to explain. It was true; there really was nothing I'd rather be doing.

But she would huff as if this meant nothing, thrusting her hands into her short black hair in frustration. "There's more to life than work, Bella!"

I bit my lip and lifted my eyes to the window, knowing now that what she had often told me was true. Though this trip could hardly qualify as a vacation, our harried rushing around far more stressful than relaxing, even the few brief glimpses I'd had of the sites were undeniably wondrous and inspiring. I couldn't imagine what it would be like if I had the chance to truly be a tourist.

Because it had been dark when we arrived, and I had only been partially awake, I hadn't realized that much of the countryside we'd passed through was covered in dense evergreens. Given it was now only late morning, a misty sun still burning off the cloud cover illuminated their depths. I had to resist pressing my nose to the window, gazing with a faint smile at the familiar pines and firs. Had it not been for the half-timbered houses peeking at intervals through their midst, I might have thought we were in the northwest.

Before I could voice this thought, Jasper finally broke the silence that had shrouded the drive thus far. "These woods must have been dangerous after the fall of Berlin. There were likely deserters…infantry from both sides on the offensive…hungry refugees…" He inhaled deeply and I could see in the rearview mirror that his eyes were distant. I turned back to the forest, trying to imagine them sixty years before, the quiet punctuated by unnerving gun fire, the houses no more than burnt out shells.

"Immanuel," I murmured, watching the trees rush by.

"But not his name," Jasper added, focusing.

I bit my lip, thinking back on the many texts and translations I'd read in my line of work. Though the authority of the Catholic church was being questioned during the period of publishing I studied, their influence was still greater than any other. It was no surprise then that most incunabula were of a religious bent; I probably could have gotten a theology degree without much effort if I were so inclined. This expertise also meant I vaguely recalled the definition of the name. "So he's got a Messiah complex?"

Jasper's gaze darted up to the rearview mirror, hazel eyes bright. "Very good, Miss Svan. It literally means 'God is with us.' But he could simply have been trying to derive some strength, some comfort, in what was a very difficult time." He paused. "And according to both Marian and Father Petr, he would have been injured…burned."

"Both New and Old Testament have references," Rozalina's husky voice broke in. "Jewish peoples do not think the name refers to Messiah. Many synagogues have this name."

Jasper added, "And it was the motto of the German empire until the Third Reich."

"The German empire?" I softly echoed, this piece of history being far outside my area of expertise.

"Gott mins uns," Jasper explained. "It was written on their helmets during the first World War."

I frowned deeply, my understanding no clearer. "So he could have been Jewish? A German or Austrian Jew?"

"Is not possible," Rozalina was frowning, too, her arms crossed over her chest. "Is not possible to survive."

"But some people did," Jasper broke in, lifting one hand from the wheel to shake an emphatic finger. "They hid or somehow managed to live until they were freed from the camps." I nodded reluctantly, recalling reading Anne Frank's diary in high school…of course, she hadn't survived, just as Rozalina was pointing out.

"A Jewish monk?" Rozalina asked incredulously, glaring at his finger.

Jasper shrugged, unmoved by her temper. "It explains moving around so much. He would always be among people who didn't know who he really was."

I spoke up, trying to put the pieces together. "Rozalina, didn't you say the old man who claimed the _Legenda Aurea_ was in a silver church sounded southern? Frau Marian thought Immanuel was Austrian. Should we be looking for monasteries in the south?" Even as I spoke, I knew it was speculative at best, my confusion only deepening.

Jasper paused, considering. "Let's back up a little. We first see him as a refugee in Dresden. It was one of the main retreats for civilians as the German front collapsed."

"Most refugees in Dresden were from the east," Rozalina argued. "He cannot hide his heritage if he is Polish—or Ukrainian."

We were all silent a moment before Jasper began musing aloud. "The whole continent was on the move. It would have been absolute chaos. There was no infrastructure, no border control."

"This feels impossible," I couldn't help murmuring. We didn't have enough information to put the puzzle together.

Jasper refused to be discouraged. "We believe that from Dresden he eventually ended up in Kutná Hora. By 1948, he had left again. I say we go back there to try to verify that we _are_ talking about the same person—that Immanuel was the gardener for Saint Barbara's. We have to be able to find someone who knew him, and then figure out where he went next."

I bit my lip, unable to argue with his reasoning. As it was, we had just reached the border, effectively ending our speculations.

Within moments, we were in another country, the accented letters and word formations utterly different on roadside signs and billboards. I shook my head, blinking hard, vowing to buy a pocket dictionary like Father Petr's when I had a chance.

I was not to be allowed the time on this day, however. Jasper drove like a maniac, first dropping off Rozalina and then swinging by my hotel. "Is an hour enough?" I nodded though I wished I had the leisure to simply sit and process everything we'd seen and discussed.

I had no desire to linger in my room, quickly switching out the dirty clothes that had accumulated during the few days in Dresden and grabbing clean jeans, shirts and under clothes from the rolling case that still sat on the bed. I glanced around the spare space that struck me as even more impersonal than the average hotel room…which made sense given I'd only spent one night there so far. Beyond the single window, the sun was breaking through the clouds, yellow beams dramatically striking the water of the Vltava.

With an exasperated sigh, I flung myself from the room. I knew I should call Dr. Cullen and give him an update but it was too late in the day and I wasn't sure what to tell him. I couldn't feel as sure as Jasper that we were on the right trail. It seemed like we were relying on too many maybes, too many discrepant facts that weren't necessarily connected.

The breeze outside was brisk but I didn't break stride, heading towards a riverside park entrance I'd spied earlier that week. I shoved my hands in my pockets, my thoughts in turmoil. A monk…a gardener...it all seemed so far fetched. How could I know any of it was related?

The park was little more than a strip of paved path buttressed by bedraggled grass. A few benches looked out over the river but I had no desire to sit down, striding north in the direction of the city center. The castle and cathedral on the distant shore were darkly outlined by the low sun, instantly catching my eye. Though the beauty of the city always gave me pause, I tried to keep moving since I knew I'd soon be back in Jasper's small car for another long drive. I repressed a sigh, hoping beyond hope that we were going to be able to confirm our theory in Kutná Hora.

It took a moment for the tapping of shoes against pavement to register, drowning out the soft slap of my ballet flats as well as the chaos of my thoughts. The fine hairs on my nape suddenly felt electrically charged and I absolutely knew without any doubt that someone was following me. I whipped around, eyes narrowing as I saw Edward Masen no more than two yards behind me.

"Goddamnit!" I swore. His presence was the last thing I needed now, a blunt reminder of why we had to hurry…as well as my own inability to make wise decisions when he was around.

"Is that how you greet everyone?" he laughed. He wore a gray peacoat, his hands deep in the pockets.

"Only you," I snapped, spinning on my heel and continuing forward.

Masen was easily able to keep pace, falling into step at my side.

"That hardly seems fair," his voice was cajoling but I was in no mood to be charmed.

I swung to a halt, turning to him with fury plainly written on my features. "The word seems absurd coming from you." He stopped as well, regarding me with a calm gaze that only fanned my anger. "In the time I've been a curator, every attempt I've made to obtain incunabula for the university has been defeated by you."

Masen tilted his head, the wind whipping off the river ruffling his messy, red-tinged hair. "That the market value is lower than my personal purchasing capacity is hardly something you can fault me for. Besides," a slight smile curved his lips but it didn't reach his eyes. "I always get what I want."

Part of me knew he was right but in that moment, given everything that had spun through my mind that day, I didn't care. "Some things are more important than your personal fulfillment."

Masen regarded me a moment, as if seriously thinking over my words. To my surprise, he lifted a hand to my elbow, turning and continuing down the path. "Such as?"

I was too surprised by his easy familiarity to resist accompanying him, gaping down at his fingers on my sleeve before raising my eyes to his face. I struggled for words and finally burst out, "The benefit to the public. Education."

He made a scoffing noise. "Most of the general public don't know what incunabula are."

"They might if you didn't own all of them!" I exclaimed, pulling my arm free from his grasp. I stopped again, refusing to go any further with him. I would not let him charm me into submission this time. I stared at him with thinned lips, waiting for him to respond.

As always, he caught me completely off guard. "You have quite the temper, you know?"

My jaw dropped—I could not believe his audicity. Regaining myself, I spat, "You would too if all of your efforts were undermined by a private collector."

Masen frowned then sighed impatiently. I felt a slight chill at the rare look of displeasure; I didn't realize until that moment that I was used to him always being amused around me. He looked away, his brow furrowed, and asked, "Do you ever think about anything else?"

My cheeks abruptly filled with blood as he so aptly hit the nail on the head, echoing the thoughts I'd had only earlier that day. It was as if he had some honing system that targeted my weakest points.

My eyes dropped to my feet as my anger drained away, pooling uselessly at my feet. I was suddenly filled with consternation and self-doubt, inhaling deeply before I spoke. "My roommate has said the same thing," I quietly admitted.

My gaze darted back up at his laughter, surprised by his reaction as well as the relief I felt at seeing his features transformed from impatience to humor. "The infamous roommate."

"Met via craigslist," I slyly reminded him, fighting the smile that was trying to twist over my lips.

"Oh, I recall," he replied, an equally mischievous look in his green eyes. "I had Emmett make some calls."

My desire to smile abruptly vanished. "You spied on my roommate?"

Masen cocked his head, his expression deliberately innocent. "A background check is the least a landlord would do-"

"You don't own my building, do you!" I cried, aghast.

"No," he was shaking his head, amusement briefly curling his lips before he pursed them thoughtfully. "Though, now that you mention it…"

"Edward Masen!" His name burst from my mouth like that of a chastising mother, my cheeks afire at the thought of him so thoroughly invading my life. It was one thing for him to continually pop up in random public spots in Dresden and Prague; my very existence in these places didn't seem real, and his presence at my side even more so. This moment, standing next to the Vltava, the river gleaming beneath the midday sun, was a fluke, a dream, too surreal to have anything to do with my life in Seattle. For him to suggest otherwise was insanity.

"Okay, okay," he jokingly acquiesced. "Real estate is an incredibly soft market regardless."

I exhaled loudly, staring at him with disbelief.

"Miss Brandon's record is entirely clean, in case you were wondering," he added, the mischievous glint reappearing in his gaze.

"You are too much," I shook my head, trying not to laugh. Then, a horrifying thought occurred to me. "Emmett ran a background check on me, too, didn't he?"

He didn't hesitate. "Quite standard."

"For who?" I exclaimed. "Crazy stalkers?" I had thrown my hands in the air in exasperation and now covered my eyes with them, unable to look at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. I only lowered them after I'd gotten my breathing under control, staring at him balefully. "It's a good thing I'm utterly boring."

Masen grinned rakishly. "I would never call you boring."

"On that point you and Miss Brandon would disagree."

Masen cocked a brow, appraising me. "Because you never go out. Because on Friday nights you are usually home…"

I stared at him with wide eyes, briefly wondering if he'd somehow recorded our conversation… then realizing I was being paranoid. He was probably just one of those prodigies with perfect recall.

I blinked, shaking my head. The topic ban that he'd imposed on our last conversation couldn't still be in effect. "Because she finds rare books and incunabula completely boring. So when I spend a Friday night browsing the internet for scans, she starts teasing me for my obsession with Winking and company."

I was gratified to see him look baffled, a frown flitting across his brow. "Winking?" he asked when he saw I wasn't going to explain.

"Wynken de Worde."

Masen laughed out loud at that and I blushed as I realized I was pleased to share such a silly joke with him…a joke that only a rare book aficianado would understand. De Worde took over William Caxton's print shop and was perhaps as well known as an early publisher in England.

"You've never been to the society meetings, though."

I couldn't help a small smile as I recognized another one of his statements-as-questions. "The Wynken de Worde Society? It's in England," I shrugged but looked away, thinking back to my desire, realized only a few hours ago, to come back to Europe—properly. I changed the subject, not wanting to dwell on my new resolve to experience more of the world. "Can you tell me why a background check is quite standard?" I echoed his words, narrowing my gaze as I regarded him.

"For anyone I interact with, it's a normal precaution," he replied loftily but his eyes had shifted away, as if drawn to the river.

"But you and I don't interact," I corrected him. "At least, not by choice." I wanted to add that, regardless, it was terribly invasive…even if I knew he couldn't have discovered anything of interest.

His green eyes flickered across my face. "You would not interact with me given the choice."

I might have imagined he was hurt were it not for the emotionless tone of his statement-as-question. Regardless, I couldn't answer, my own eyes shifting away, staring at my feet, a bench, the sky. I couldn't lie but I certainly wasn't going to admit that he fascinated me…and that for all of my bluster when he popped up, I felt energized by these encounters. I took refuge in a non-answer. "There's a conflict of interest…don't you think?"

There was a silence in which I became increasingly fascinated by my shoes, wishing I'd packed a pair that weren't so scuffed. When he spoke, the sly note had entered his voice again. "I think that sounds like a legal term." I reluctantly peered up at him, curious as to where he was going with this. His expression was equally sly, a half-smirk curling his lips. "And given there are no lawyers involved in our…interactions, I'd say that it's irrelevant."

I bit my bottom lip, uncertain how to respond to his easy dismissal of the heart of the matter—that we were both in Prague pursuing the same objective. "Mr. Masen-"

"Edward. Please." There was something incredibly sincere in those two words, the smirk and slyness dropping away as he honestly asked me to call him by his name. I blushed violently, caught off guard by his desire to drop all formality. Nothing he did made any sense.

"Edward," I began again. He looked so pleased, a broad smile crossing his face, that what I'd been planning to say flew entirely from my head.

After a pause, he asked, "Yes?"

"I-I don't remember," I stuttered, blushing again.

"Shall we return, then?" he asked, inclining his head in the direction of my hotel. "You have to be back soon."

I glanced at my wristwatch, then frowned, staring at him. "How do you know that?"

"Aren't you headed to Kutná Hora shortly?" His expression was so innocent that I wanted to slap him.

I wasn't going to ask him how he knew, certain I would get no satisfying answers. I glared at him, my temper flaring dangerously. I turned on my heel before I said or did something I would regret, striding away from him as quickly as my feet would carry me. I told myself I was grateful I didn't hear the tap of his shoes following me.

Wanting to kick myself for getting drawn into conversation with him again, I couldn't resist shouting over my shoulder, "Stop spying on me!"

His laughing voice called back, "Check out the ossuary if you get a chance!"


	13. Ossuary

**Disclaimer:** Any familiar elements belong to S. Meyer.

**

* * *

Twelve**

_If one process started the chain reaction of events that led to the invention of the printing press, it was the rise of trade between Western Europe and the outside world all the way to China. That trade exposed Europeans to three things important for the invention of the printing press: rag paper, block printing, and, oddly enough, the Black Death. I__t unraveled the tapestry of the feudal system. Manual labor became precious and wages skyrocketed accordingly. __The Black Death also decimated monasteries, with their close living quarters, killing off many of the monks who copied books.__ Technology had to become less labor-intensive. For good or evil, the plague years gave us crossbows, guns, clocks, eyeglasses, and…the printing press._

The chandelier above my head was made of human bones. Each flickering candle perched atop a skull, which in turn sat on a base of flaring hip bones. Instead of flashing, faceted crystals, long femurs dangled from the arches of the fixture, the center of which was stacked with more skulls and bones.

Only when my neck began to ache did I think to lower my gaze, staring with wide, horrified fascination around me. The sheer numbers might have rendered the interior of the chapel impersonal, like a jar of beans meant to represent the gallons of water in the ocean. But when those beans were bones, even gray and covered in dust, there was no escaping the truth, no couching the objects in symbolism or representation; this was death manifested.

My feet pulled me deeper into the chapel, my arms wrapping around my torso though I couldn't tell whether or not I was cold. The remains of thousands of people surrounded me. Some were artfully arranged in the shape of monstrances or chalices, oversized and macabre. A starburst of scapulas mimicked the sun, a jawless skull at the center. Along the farthest wall, behind heavy metal grates, veritable pyramids of skulls towered high, meticulously arranged with the empty eye sockets facing outwards.

I had come alone, which was my first mistake. Arriving as the chapel had opened had been the second; there was no one else here, not on a Wednesday when the morning was barely over. But it had seemed useless for me to accompany Rozalina and Jasper in the meetings Father Petr had arranged.

The priest had invited us for dinner the previous evening, providing the first home cooked meal I'd eaten since my arrival to Europe. I'd tried to stifle my enthusiasm but couldn't help gushing over the garlic soup, nearly speaking with my mouth full. I'd almost swooned when he pulled a fresh loaf of crusty bread from the oven, sopping a chunk in the fragrant dish with relish. When I learned it was only the first course, I'd clapped my hands together, then blushed as Father Petr grinned at me, delighted to see an American guest so pleased.

Jasper had laughed, lecherously winking at me when the priest wasn't looking. I'd had to resist sticking my tongue out at him, knowing exactly why he was teasing me…as if I'd flirt with a man of the cloth! Truthfully, I didn't know how to flirt at all. I had defiantly continued to compliment Father Petr on his cooking, refusing to change my behavior just because Jasper was a pervert.

Over a dessert of apple dumplings, the priest had explained that though he'd tracked down a few people who might be able to help us, most of them would not be able to speak English. I'd been almost relieved to hear it.

"One American who can't speak Czech is more than enough. I won't be able to contribute anything." I wasn't being dishonest but there was more to it than I was willing to admit. Fortunately, Jasper hadn't questioned me closely, encouraging me to take a break and enjoy the sites while I had the chance.

I didn't know that I would call this enjoyment.

I looked up again, swallowing the dark feeling that was impossible to deny staring at garlands of human bones. It was true that I needed a reprieve; the breakneck pace of our investigation couldn't compare to my wildest, most intense week of finals…and I could honestly think of no other parallel from my mundane life. Feeling overwhelmed was starting to seem like the norm. I had no idea anymore if I was tired because of jet lag or because I'd spent the past week hurtling around a foreign country, staring for hours at photos of air raid victims, being surrounded by languages I didn't understand, and verbally sparring with the one person who could make the whole endeavor pointless.

Thoughts of Edward Masen filled me with waves of guilt. He was the other reason it felt somehow wrong for me to accompany Rozalina and Jasper in the interviews. I didn't know what Masen or his sidekick, Emmett, were doing but I was beginning to feel as if I was undermining the search with my very presence. I knew it was ludicrous to think that he had bugged my shoes or had someone following me, but I couldn't think of any other way he could know where we were going…or how to find me when he popped up in his improbable way. Perhaps, if I broke off from Rozalina and Jasper for a day, I might be able to throw him off.

I shook my head, my hair falling over my shoulders and concealing my suddenly hot cheeks. I knew throwing him off was about as far fetched as this German Jewish monk hauling a copy of the Burgundian _Golden Legend_ around postwar Europe. I knew it very well might be as simple as having someone planted on the inside…Rozalina.

I kept meaning to bring up my suspicions to Jasper but, beyond that first trip to Kutná Hora, we were never alone. And, to my utter surprise and dismay, the dour graduate student had begun to grow on me over the course of the past week. I no longer _wanted_ to believe that she was feeding information to Masen and his team. Her stoical demeanor was the perfect foil to Jasper's unfailing, sometimes smarmy charm. Further, she seemed to be just as invested in every speculative discussion and had put in nearly as many hours combing through documents and books, tirelessly researching. Such engagement seemed to contradict an intention to screw us over.

I shook my head again, opening my eyes and gazing at the layer upon layer of skulls stacked before me. In the face of such mortality, it all felt ridiculously futile.

Why had he told me to come here? I wondered if perhaps he was morbid, especially given the death of his parents…but he'd never struck me as such; of course, I had no inkling as to his personality, his likes and dislikes. I was fooling myself if I thought otherwise. I bit my lip, staring around me, unable to make sense of it.

The cemetery beyond the chapel doors apparently held earth brought back by a Crusader, newly returned from the Holy Land. When the plague arrived two hundred years later, the little plot was simply overwhelmed. Then, when the chapel was expanded several hundred years later, the ossuary was created to hold the unearthed remains. Father Petr had said thirty to forty thousand people were represented by these bones. So many hundreds of years, momentous historical events mixing with incidental decisions…all culminating in this ghastly display.

I briefly wondered, gazing about me, if I'd grown up surrounded by history, the words in my textbooks much more than black ink on a page, represented by the places and people around me, would I have been so enamored of incunabula? If I hadn't lived in Phoenix and Forks, where the oldest things dated from the century in which I was born, would rare books have held the same fascination? It was impossible to know.

"Bella!"

I pivoted at the sound of Jasper's breathless voice, surprised to see him careening down the stone stairs into the depths of the ossuary.

"He lived here! He lived here in Sedlec!"

If my blood could have turned to ice, it would have in that moment, a shudder racing under my skin. Had Masen directed me here knowing it would aid our search? What kind of game was he playing? My own voice was breathless though I didn't have the excuse of running through the chapel. "Immanuel?"

Jasper nodded eagerly, breathing heavily as he reached my side. "We just finished speaking with Michal Novak…he's Karel Novak's grandson."

"Karel…" The name sounded familiar but given I'd been introduced to more people in the past five days than I'd met in Seattle in the past year, I wasn't surprised I couldn't place it.

"He was the gardener directly after Immanuel! Immanuel Flohr!"

I finally remembered Father Petr mentioning him, nodding as that piece of the conversation returned to me. Jasper continued, "Michal said he gardened for all of the churches in the area but lived in Sedlec until the coup."

"The coup?" I echoed, trying to recall my history lessons.

Rozalina had finally reached us, her arms crossed over her chest as she looked around distastefully. Jasper glanced at her nervously and she turned to him with the same degree of disgust. "The Soviet coup," she clarified for my benefit.

I looked back and forth between them, trying to make sense of the tension. "The democratic Czech government was overthrown," Rozalina explained impatiently, lifting her blue eyes to the ceiling…then rapidly letting them fall as she caught sight of the chandelier.

"It was a coup in the truest sense of the word," Jasper quietly explained, his gaze fixed on me, refusing to look at Rozalina. "The democratic government was fairly voted into power; the Communists had alienated most of the country…but they had the backing of the Soviets." I glanced at Rozalina but her face was like stone. I was starting to understand Jasper's discomfort, repeating the history that continued to make her life difficult nearly twenty years after Communism had fallen. "They started firing non-communists from government positions as well as the police force and army. When several ministers resigned in protest, the Communists threatened violence."

"So he was trying to leave the country," I concluded.

"Especially if he was religious," Jasper agreed. "Stalin's purges wouldn't reach their height until the early 1950s but the Communist's disapproval of organized religion was no secret." Jasper shook his head, his lips tight. "Unfortunately, Michal didn't know many more details." Refusing to be discouraged, he held up a finger, his unfailing smile returning to his wide mouth. "We do know he couldn't have made it to the border."

"Otherwise, no deathbed confession," I grimaced.

"And no random old man showing up at my lecture," Jasper added.

Rozalina chose that moment to contribute, gazing around the chapel with a foul expression. "We wouldn't be here at all."

With this new breakthrough, I no longer had any reluctance about accompanying Jasper and Rozalina in the remainder of their meetings. I ducked into the back of the Volkswagen, waving aside Rozalina's invitation to sit in the front, and listened as they discussed the plan for approaching Zdenka Urbankova.

"She's the sister to Father Tomaš," Jasper explained.

"The priest before Father Petr?" I asked, remembering that piece of our first conversation with him.

"Right."

They decided Jasper would introduce himself first since, as an older person, she was likely to view Rozalina's Russian inflected Czech with suspicion. Only when the conversation couldn't continue without the aid of translation would Rozalina provide assistance.

All of the plotting turned out to be for nothing. The stout, elderly woman who greeted us at the door of a quaint cottage would not allow Jasper to ask any questions. She smiled, waving away his fumbling Czech, insisting we take a seat in a living room crowded with photos and knick knacks. We warily glanced at one another, perched on the overstuffed sofa and armchairs, as she bustled in the kitchen. "Čaj?" her voice carried through the door. I grinned, recognizing the word for 'tea.'

"Ano, prosim!" Jasper called back, his hands dancing atop his knees as he fidgeted restlessly. She returned with a tray laden with saucers, little porcelain cups, a steaming tea pot covered in a plaid cosy, and little jars filled with sugar and cream. It became very clear we weren't leaving any time soon.

After an hour of politely sipping on tea strong enough to put hair on my chest, and awkward, stunted small talk, Zdenka finally asked how she could help. I couldn't be impatient since she was clearly lonely, rambling, from what I could tell, about her children and grandchildren. Once given an in, Jasper eagerly leapt, asking if she recalled a gardener by the name of Immanuel Flohr.

"Oh, ne, ne. Více čaj?" I might have laughed for the twisted expression that crossed Jasper's usually cheerful face. When he grudgingly accepted her offer of more tea after a short pause, I had to stifle a giggle. Fortunately, Zdenka seemed not to notice, sweetly smiling as she lifted the pot to Jasper's dainty cup.

Only when we were safely in the confines of his Volkswagen did I let the laughter escape, choking and snorting in the back of his car as I spied his glare in the rear view mirror. "You have to admit it's funny!" I finally exclaimed. Even Rozalina wore a faint smile, turning in her seat to watch me die of hysterics.

"You think it's funny that we just wasted almost two hours listening to her talk about the Czech version of _American Idol_?" Jasper's outrage only fed my laughter.

"I thought she was talking about her grandkids!" I gasped. My stomach was starting to hurt, I was laughing so hard.

"No, Honza Nedvěd is a finalist," Rozalina clarified. "Rock and roll," she added obliquely. I only laughed harder.

Jasper finally broke into a reluctant grin but the dismay hadn't fully left his hazel gaze. "I'd laugh, too, if it wasn't for the fact…" he paused, sighing as he turned the wheel towards the center of town. "This was it. We have no way of finding out where Immanuel went after he left Kutná Hora."

I sobered at his words, straightening in the back seat of the car. "Zdenka was the last meeting?"

Jasper nodded wordlessly, pulling into a parking spot before the little hotel where we'd spent the prior night.

He pulled the seat forward, allowing me out of the car. As we stood on the gray cobblestones, I knew my grim expression was mirrored by Jasper and Rozalina, glancing at one another in the hopes that someone would have an idea of what to do next.

But it was apparent to all of us we'd reached a dead end.

* * *

If you're curious, a good set of photos of the ossuary can be seen at: flickr(dot)com/photos/halvorbodin/sets/72157621797368963/


	14. Brno

**Disclaimer:** Any familiar elements belong to S. Meyer.

* * *

**Thirteen**

_Saint Thomas: it was Saint Thomas who, during the discourse before the Last Supper, raised an objection: "Thomas saith to him: Lord, we know not whither thou goest; and how can we know the way?"_

The return journey to Prague was forbiddingly, despairingly silent. A black cloud permeated the little car, all of us avoiding making eye contact, unwilling to voice what we knew to be true. Jasper flipped on the radio when it became too much for him, and I found myself grateful for the babble of voices in a foreign language. Staring out the window at the passing countryside, I didn't realize my hands had formed into fists in my lap, nails digging into my palms.

"I'll call you," Jasper said shortly as he pulled up to the hotel where I'd yet to spend more than one night. I nodded, saying nothing as I hitched my backpack up my shoulder and stepped out onto the curb.

I paced in my room, grasping at ideas, trying to think what I could possibly do next to unlock this mystery. I thought back over all of the conversations, the little information we'd collected, the bits and pieces that provided the barest glimmer of a picture. I stared blankly out the window, fingers twitching as I mentally examined every fragment, every word, striving to find a hint to help our search.

When Jasper finally called several hours later, I'd just returned to my room after having spent the past chunk of time at an internet café several blocks away. His voice sounded tired, not even bothering with a greeting. "Rozalina and I have been checking a couple of resources. There's no record of an Immanuel Flohr anywhere."

"We suspected it wasn't his real name," I replied, my voice measured, striving to sound reasonable rather than desperate.

"Right," Jasper heaved a sigh. "We also cross-checked the list of survivors who were not on the East German census for 1949. There isn't a match there either."

"Which would make sense if he provided his real name…or left before the survivors were documented."

"True." Jasper sounded slightly more hopeful.

"Look," I began, "I know I'd proposed this before, and that it's quite a long shot."

"I'm listening." I was encouraged by the hint of interest in his voice.

"I know, too, that it's hardly the most efficient way to try to narrow down where he might have gone." I took a deep breath. "But I was researching monasteries in the Czech Republic. There really aren't that many…that operate as religious establishments, anyways."

Jasper sounded wary, "Less than ten?"

"Yes!" I answered, then took a calming breath, realizing I sounded too eager. I continued, "This man, this person who showed up at the lecture…he called Immanuel 'the monk,' right? It wasn't this nickname or a play on words."

"No," Jasper admitted.

"So if we limit our search to those that operate as religious institutions, as well as those that could count as southern…" Jasper inhaled, and I hurried to explain. "Because Rozalina said the man who attended your lecture sounded southern…and Frau Marian thought Immanuel sounded Austrian."

Jasper was silent a moment and I waited with held breath, hoping he saw promise in the theory. "It's a starting point, I guess," he finally allowed. I exhaled. "You have to understand, though," he added before I could get too excited. "The idea of someone sounding southern…it's no different than someone sounding southern in the United States. To begin with, it's a huge area. And your idea of southern probably differs from my idea of southern—it's so subjective."

I tried not to waver, wanting to have faith that we weren't going to be chasing rainbows by following this plan. "I know…but the Czech Republic is a lot smaller than the United States. I mean…it's the size of a state, right?"

"Yeah," Jasper continued to sound reluctant. "Smaller than Washington, anyways," he added, a smile in his voice.

I was relieved to hear him at least sound like his humor hadn't completely failed him. "I can't believe _I'm_ convincing _you_," I risked joking, allowing an exasperated laugh to escape my lips.

Fortunately, a huff of similar laughter sounded in my ear, Jasper's voice wry, "I know, I know. I just thought we were on to something-"

"We are, Jasper. We've got to be. These people…Frau Marian, Michal Novak…they're not making it up."

"No, I know." I could nearly hear him nodding his head. "Even if none of this is related to the Burgundian _Golden Legend_, it's an amazing story."

I closed my eyes as I realized I agreed. "I know," I admitted softly. Then, trying to bring levity back to the conversation, I laughed, "Even if I don't get to see one incunabulum on this trip, I'll have learned a lot."

Jasper chuckled in return then asked, "So tell me which monasteries you think are the best bets." He offered to cross check maps from his office and talk to Rozalina about the best itinerary. "Once we figure that out, we can get going."

"Perfect!" I couldn't help my grin, excited that we weren't yet throwing in the towel. Once I hung up, though, the smile rapidly faded. I stared at the phone for several minutes, on edge and weary all at once. The reversal of our roles, the need for me to act as cheerleader, was draining. I knew it was partly because my motivations for remaining in Europe had become blurred, my objective less and less clear as each day passed.

I would never have admitted to Jasper that once I had narrowed down the list of potentional monasteries to visit, the remainder of my time online had been spent hungrily tracking down what little information I could find about the man who was making this search so frantic.

I didn't know whether it was because I doubted what he'd told me, simply wanting to verify that he wasn't manipulating me by catering to my sympathies…or because I thought if I equipped myself with the kind of knowledge he apparently had about me, I might gain the upper hand the next time he decided to pop up unexpectedly…or because I was, more than anything, satisfying a dark pit of curiosity that only seemed to grow with every encounter we had.

I hadn't realized I was leaning forward across the keyboard, my eyes inches from the computer screen as they raced across the text, uncaring of who else might be in the cafe. There were a few archived articles from _The Seattle Times_, a program from a Seattle Chamber of Commerce dinner where he'd been the keynote speaker, and a blurb in Philanthropy Northwest. None of it was wildly illuminating, mostly covering investment strategies and, in the case of Philanthropy Northwest, the direction of charitable giving at Whittier-Veill. I shouldn't have found it very interesting but I read every word.

I got creative with the keywords I was using, desperate for more information. Adding the city of his birth brought up a paper he'd co-written while attending the University of Chicago; clicking a few more links revealed he'd gone to the graduate school for business there. Double checking the year, I realized he'd gotten his Master's degree far earlier than normal; I pulled up the calculator to make sure I wasn't screwing up the math somehow. I bit my lip as I hit the equal sign and saw I wasn't crazy. He'd been twenty-two when he got his MBA.

Paging through the results, my brow furrowed as I saw articles mentioning mergers and charity events that had to have taken place when Edward was a teenager. My eyes went wide as I realized these results were about his father, who apparently had the same name. I exhaled when I came across a profile in the _Chicago Tribune_ from the late 1970s, gushing with praise for the investor and philanthropist; a link within the article brought me to a wedding announcement, a grainy picture accompanying the small blurb. I squinted at the screen, wishing I could make out the features of the senior Edward Masen and his new wife, Elizabeth. I clicked through to another link and gasped as I landed on their obituary.

If he was manipulating me, he was doing so with the truth. I barely breathed, slowly absorbing the words on the screen. His mother and father had been flying on a private jet from London to Madrid for an event hosted by UNICEF when it crashed, killing everyone on board. I unconsciously lifted a hand to my mouth as I quickly calculated Edward's age at the time. He couldn't have been older than seventeen.

I wondered what had happened after. Who did he live with? Was there extended family who could be of comfort to him with such an awful loss? What had happened with his father's business? Who did he spend his holidays with?

I continued to click and type, trying to find more. Adding 'rare books' to the keywords brought up a shockingly small amount of information. Given what I personally knew about his collection, I was surprised there was very little record of it. Of course, since it was a private collection and, to my knowledge, had never been exhibited, it made sense.

I only pulled myself away from the screen when my eyes were beginning to tire, blinking rapidly as I returned to reality and made my way back to the hotel.

It wasn't long before the phone rang again, Jasper's voice having regained its exuberance in the interim. "The easiest way to do this is to start at the eastern most location and work our way back west. So we'll start with Saint Thomas' Abbey in Brno, then Zlata Koruna, and finally Vyšší Brod. Rozalina won't be able to come—she's got a paper to write. But now that we have a name, I think we'll be fine without her." I bit my lip, knowing this would be my chance to ask him how well he knew her, how much he trusted her…as much as I dreaded bringing up my suspicions.

While waiting for him to arrive, I showered and reconfigured the clothes in my bags, trying to separate the worn and dirty items from the few things that were still clean. I was in the midst of trying to decide whether I should forgo wearing underwear altogether when I heard the horn of his Volkswagen outside. Rapidly zipping my bags shut, I flew out the door, nearly forgetting to lock the bolt behind me.

The sky was already growing dark by the time we reached the freeway. Jasper threw on the headlights as he chattered about the things he missed most from home. "You think you'll never be homesick, that it's not possible living in such a beautiful place. Then you wake up from a dream about barbecue chicken wings, and you know you're full of shit."

I was trying to listen, to nod and smile at appropriate moments, but my stomach was in knots trying to think how to broach the topic of Rozalina's possible perfidy. Jasper was oblivious to my turmoil, eyes fixed on the road, his drawl more pronounced as he reminisced about Texas. "What I wouldn't give for a decent burrito, you know?"

"Rozalina wouldn't tell Masen about the man at the lecture, would she?"

The question was so abrupt, the words bursting in a rush from my mouth, that Jasper clearly didn't absorb the meaning for a full minute. I waited with held breath for him to respond, hoping I hadn't offended him, worried he'd confirm my suspicions with his own, then wondering if he'd actually heard me.

"Look, Bella," he finally began. "I know Rozalina isn't the warmest person-"

"That's an understatement," I pointed out.

He glanced away from the road; though his face was bathed in darkness, I could see his brow was furrowed. "Part of that is our own cultural expectations. People don't wear shit-eating grins all the time the way they do at home. Communism made the whole concept of customer service and impersonal friendliness an anomaly."

I nodded, thinking how the receptionist at the hotel in Prague had yet to smile at me. I'd just thought she hated her job. "That's not really answering my question, though," I stubbornly responded.

Jasper inhaled sharply. "The other part of it is that Rozalina gets this kind of crap all the time. People think she's either some Russian mafioso's girlfriend, or looking for a husband so she can get an E.U. passport, or, at best, an airhead who only managed to come here on exchange because she's pretty. No one, and I mean no one, takes her at face value." His voice had grown increasingly harsh as he spoke, his hands fists around the steering wheel. I found myself shrinking in my seat, struggling to remember why I'd had my suspicions in the first place.

"That kind of unfair treatment might have made her standoffish and cold, but it certainly didn't take away her sense of right and wrong." I bit my lip, thinking I had yet to see Jasper angry. Though he'd been snapped at by an elderly German woman, put in hours of driving around central Europe, and probably been just as frustrated as me by the tedium of our research, I didn't think I'd once seen him lose his temper. He seemed awfully close now. "Though her expertise is illuminations and she has no real investment in helping you or me, she has put in almost as much time as both of us to trying to figure this out."

"I know." My voice was a whisper. I briefly thought to ask him why she'd make covert phone calls in English but knew there was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation. Perhaps she had an acquaintance who didn't speak Czech or Russian or German…or perhaps she'd been speaking German and I'd simply misheard her…Either way, I didn't want to fan the flames of Jasper's outrage. "I'm sorry, Jasper."

It took a moment for him to respond. "It's alright." I was relieved that he sounded as if he meant it. "I know we're all under a lot of stress and, like I said, she's not the warmest person." It almost sounded as if he was smiling.

"No," I agreed, trying to smile in return. "She's grown on me anyways."

He chuckled softly. "Me, too."

We returned to the lighter topic of burritos and barbecue, watching sporting events on television at three in the morning because of the time difference, and other frustrations of living abroad. By the time we pulled into a gas station just beyond the city limits of Brno, I was laughingly offering to send him cans of refried beans upon my return home. "I would offer you my first born son if you did such a thing," Jasper drawled.

I noticed a battered Renault pull away from the gas station at the same time as us, frowning as it remained in the passenger side mirror the entire way into town. I only relaxed when it continued down the narrow lane where our hotel was located, Jasper seemingly oblivious as he threw the car into park. "I don't know about you, but I'm beat. I know it's early but I think I'm going to turn in."

"Okay…I might take a walk," I glanced down the quiet road, ornate street lights illuminating the slick pavement. "I feel like I've been sitting in a car or at a computer all day."

"I hear you," Jasper laughed, leading the way into the hotel that felt more like a bed and breakfast, the lobby resembling a cozy living room with a roaring fire place and overstuffed chairs. After dropping off my bag in the tiny room, I tromped back down the stairs. I waved at the clerk at the desk, noting his dour, unsmiling nod with a rueful smile of my own, before stepping out into the cool evening air.

My cheeks flushed despite the low temperatures as I thought back to the conversation with Jasper. How could I have been so insensitive? It only reaffirmed my poor social skills, my inability to read people, my total lack of savviness…which I supposed was why I tended to stick to books. My gaze dropped to my feet, stepping carefully over the cobble stones that seemed inescapable here, wishing I wasn't so awkward.

The hairs suddenly stood up on the back of my neck and I pricked up my ears, listening for the tap of Edward Masen's shoes. My senses strained, hearing nothing. But the feeling of being followed wouldn't go away, despite the ominous silence of the street.

I spun on my heel, certain I'd see someone behind me. All that greeted my darting, wide eyes was a flickering street light, the cobble stones empty of any presence but my own.

Laughing nervously as if to reassure myself, I decided to return to the hotel. I didn't realize I was hurrying until I reached the stairs leading up to the doors of the brick building, my lungs burning with how quickly I'd crossed the pavement.

I refused to admit that I felt anything other than tired and anxious as I changed into worn sweats and a tank top, sinking into the firm mattress with a sigh. As I lay in the darkness, I pressed a hand into the soft flesh of my stomach, trying to deny the gnawing sensation there. I couldn't be disappointed…I refused to be…it just wasn't possible. How could I possibly be let down that Edward Masen wasn't there?


	15. The Meadow

**Disclaimer**: I always felt like Bella needed a better purpose for that passport. Characters are Meyers. Brno is for lovers.  


* * *

**Fourteen**

_Saint Medard: legend says that when he was a child, Medard was once sheltered from the rain by a hovering eagle. This is his most common depiction in art, and led to his patronage of fair weather, against foul conditions and for people who work the fields._

Whether because of lingering jet lag or my increasingly confused mental state, I slept poorly and woke at the crack of dawn. Birds sang beyond the vertical blinds covering the windows, greeting the rising sun happily. I couldn't lay in bed listening to them, shrugging away the covers and moving to the cord for the blinds.

I blinked in the light that, as my pupils adjusted, I saw was still hazy and pale gray at such an early hour. A narrow courtyard lay beyond the window, a common area that might have been a stable or mews a century before. Now, trees unfurled new buds to the sky, a few worn benches scattered beneath their branches. My eyes darted with the movement of the birds, following them among the greenery. The acute, sudden longing I had for home struck me like a physical blow, my muscles tensing with the impact of the feeling, my eyes squeezing shut.

I knew no one could be up but I didn't care. I threw on my ballet flats, glasses, and a cardigan before scribbling a quick note on the hotel stationary to let Jasper know I'd stepped out. He'd told me the night before that the abbey wasn't open to the public until eleven so I knew I had plenty of time. I tiptoed across the gloomy hall to Jasper's room and crouched down to slide the note under the door.

To my surprise, as my hand brushed against the door it eased open with a soft creak. I straightened, then, after a moment of thought, leaned inside to push the lock into the knob. As unlikely as it was that anyone would break in, I figured it was better to be safe than sorry. I held my breath, glancing towards the bed and grinning at the sight of Jasper's curly head buried amongst the pillows, one bare foot poking out from beneath the covers. Just as I moved to pull the door shut, I spied his car keys on top of the dresser, the metal glinting in the light.

Biting my lip, I peeked back towards Jasper then shrugged. I doubted he would mind and it would allow me to escape the turmoil in my head for a bit. I tiptoed the few steps into his room, gingerly picked up the keys, and closed the door behind me.

The slam of the car door was loud in the silent street, damp speckling the wind shield, the steering wheel cold beneath my hands. I paused after sliding the key into the ignition, biting my lip as I wondered what had possessed me. I speculated that all of Jasper's talk of being homesick must have had a greater influence than I realized…though I'd only been away for a little over a week. I thought, too, that it was rare to go so long in Seattle without encountering miles of green space; I spent many of my lunch breaks walking the Burke Gilman trail, which passed through the University of Washington campus. Though I wasn't as rugged as a lot of Washingtonians, rarely hiking, camping or kayaking, there was something about this refined, historical landscape that had me longing for woods and flowers and green.

I twisted the key in the ignition and carefully turned the wheel, pulling away from the curb.

I couldn't help smiling as I saw that following the road Jasper had taken into town brought me to a dense forest. I thought I'd spied it the night before but the trees had been difficult to make out in the darkness. I was not disappointed as I saw them by daylight, rolling down the window to listen to the breeze rushing through the leaves. I took a right onto a narrow gravel road, relatively certain I could find my way back, only wanting to go deeper into the woods.

I frowned as I saw a Mercedes in the rear view mirror, bumping down the road after taking the same turn. I'd been in this part of the world long enough to now know the car didn't necessarily count as a luxury brand but that didn't make me less nervous at the prospect of being followed—an idea I no longer thought of as entirely crazy given my conversation with Jasper the prior evening. With Rozalina absolved, and Masen's uncanny ability to know not only my location but where I was headed, it seemed increasingly likely he'd expended some of his considerable resources to tracking me somehow.

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until the car signaled to pass me, clearly impatient with my tentative driving. I had been so focused on the Mercedes in the mirror that I didn't notice the gas tank was nearly empty, sucking in a breath as the Volkswagen's engine made an unhappy coughing noise. My head darted down just as the Mercedes plowed by, staring at the gauge in disbelief.

"Goddamnit!" My eyes darted around, taking in the quiet forest with a hint of panic. I shifted into neutral, hoping that might allow the little car to chug along for another mile or two…but the engine died with a sense of finality only a few yards later.

I took a deep breath as I eased toward the shoulder of the road. Hadn't Jasper filled up the tank just the night before…right before the Brno city limits? How could it be empty now? I inhaled again, forcing myself to be calm. I had to chuckle, ruefully wishing the Mercedes hadn't been in such a hurry. The chuckle turned into a slightly hysterical laugh, realizing I was stranded, didn't speak a word of the local language, and had no cell phone to get a hold of Jasper.

"Oh, fuck it," I muttered, slamming out of the car. I hadn't been behind the wheel for more than fifteen minutes. Worst case scenario, I could follow the narrow road back to the highway and return to Brno on foot. A long walk wouldn't kill me…besides which, I'd been pining for the quiet peace of the woods. The least I could do was enjoy it…even if it was under far different circumstances than what I'd imagined.

I had gone no more than ten paces when I spied a winding path leading into the forest. The trees were less dense than home, the light easily filtering down to the tangle of grasses and wildflowers that bordered the path. The dirt was so packed, I initially thought it was paved, the smooth surface obviously tramped by hundreds of hiking feet. A bird suddenly called out, startling me, the song high, sweet, and melodic.

Hesitating only a moment, I turned down the path, laughing softly as I thought I should have brought one of the cardamom speckled rolls that were ubiquitous here. "No crumbs today," I murmured up to the tree tops. My gaze remained fixed on the boughs as I continued forward, mesmerized by the leaves gently rippling in the breeze high above my head. I could feel myself relax in this quiet beauty, the urgency and confusion of the past week melting away.

Without a phone, I had no idea of the passage of time but I couldn't care as I meandered deeper into the forest, my head empty of the noise that had seemed inescapable for days. I breathed deeply, luxuriating in the scent of fresh air and green things, gazing around me with a faint smile tilting my lips.

Just as I was thinking I should turn back, the brighter glow of full daylight ahead caught my attention. I peered through the trees, trying to see if there was a road ahead…or even a house or business where I might be able to use a phone and wake up Jasper. Of course, I wasn't exactly sure what I would tell him. "Sorry I left your car on the side of a deserted road after stealing your keys at the crack of dawn."

As I stepped over the slender trunk of a fallen birch, the white bark semi-obscured by velvety moss, I realized I shouldn't have worried. No house or gas station greeted my gaze, my eyes wide with wonder and surprise as I marveled at the idyllic setting. The brighter light didn't indicate the encroachment of civilization; instead, a meadow, lovely and wild, tumbled before me, the sun shining down as if caught there.

Flowers in violet and white danced in a gentle breeze that barely stirred the hair around my shoulders. Birches and elms circled around, the rustle of the leaves mixing with the sound of bird calls. I moved forward as if compelled, a magnet tugged towards a pole; I didn't realize my feet were parting the grass until I found myself in the center of the field, staring about me with a rare feeling of peace.

I wondered at the perfect symmetry of the open space. With everything I'd recently researched, I couldn't help thinking that only an artillery shell could cause such a uniform clearance of trees and brush. I lowered my head, inhaling the faint scent of new blooms and sun warmed grass. As my eyes slid shut, the sudden feeling of electricity charged the fine hairs on my nape, eerily familiar. In the same instant that I was denying the prickling sensation, the soft snap of a twig met my ears.

I spun around, shocked to think anyone could have followed me so closely—at such an early hour—to such a remote place. My eyes found a figure beneath the trees, the shadowed path suddenly seeming dark to pupils widened by the sun. I squinted despite the glasses perched on my nose, trying to make out the features of the person hesitating on the edge of the meadow. Though I was filled with surprise, I was somehow unafraid, unmoving as he finally stepped into the light.

I didn't realize my lips were tilting upward until the expression faltered. Later, I would tell myself I had stopped smiling because I knew I shouldn't be pleased to see him. If I were honest, I would have admitted it was the absolute fury clouding his face that felt like a splash of cold water, wiping the smile away.

Edward Masen approached me slowly, deliberately, his anger palpable. His forehead was deeply furrowed, dark brows drawn together over eyes that blazed. His mouth was a firm, unyielding line, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

As always, my mind went to one place, though my voice was wary as I spoke. "So does this mean we're on the right track?" It was the only reason I could imagine for such obvious anger.

Masen's fury wavered, his expression momentarily confused, before he shook his head and regarded me with the same baleful glare. "By 'we' do you mean yourself and Dr. Whitlock?"

He had stopped several paces away, the sun highlighting the bronze strands in his hair. I bit my lip, not certain what he was getting at. "…and Dr. Cullen. And Rozalina," I added, watching him closely for any reaction, a flicker of recognition at her name.

To my relief and consternation, his anger didn't falter, snapping, "Neither of whom are in Brno." His lack of reaction supported Jasper's faith in the graduate student but only confirmed the reality that Masen was dogging my path via some other means.

But why should he be so angry? I stared at him, thinking that if I looked hard enough, I might figure him out. Then, it occurred to me.

"You think me and Jasper…?" The incredulity of my voice, gazing at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief, seemed to break the spell. His frown faded, green eyes darting away as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"Whatever is between you and Dr. Whitlock is no concern of mine."

I couldn't tell if it was my reaction that reassured him or if my initial impression was entirely wrong. He couldn't possibly have been jealous, could he? "There's nothing between us," I replied, then, annoyed that I was defending myself to him, I added, "Not that it's any of your business."

"That's what I just said."

I huffed in exasperation, longing to throw my hands in the air. Only Edward Masen could bring me to the end of my rope in less than sixty seconds while standing in one of the most beautiful settings I'd ever experienced. "Do you have to be so infuriating all of the time?"

"Your the first person to accuse me of such a thing." A slight grin curled his lips, indicating that whatever had been angering him was completely forgotten.

"I find that incredibly hard to believe." I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling slightly vulnerable. I had no idea where I was, there was no one else around, and, very clearly, Edward could not have known where I was without _some_ kind of surveillance. The fact that I found this exciting as well as disturbing bothered me deeply.

"You're here alone," he spoke as if addressing my thoughts.

"Not anymore apparently," I lifted a brow, trying not to smile. "So are satellites swiveling in my direction as we speak? You must have planted some CIA technology on me when I wasn't paying attention."

He laughed but didn't reply, merely regarding me with mischief glinting in his green eyes. "Emmett did work with the FBI at one point but you're safe from having microchips implanted on your person."

"I would hope so," I replied wryly. I imagined it was far more simple than that; he likely had people following me…or Jasper…or both of us. It wasn't as if the expense would prevent him, and we certainly hadn't been taking any precautions to assure we weren't tailed. "I know things about you, too, you know," I added, eyes narrowing.

Edward took a step closer but I refused to step back, regarding him stubbornly. "Like what?"

The flirtatious tone of his voice brought heat to my cheeks but I tried to sound blasé when I spoke. "Where you went to graduate school. That you finished freakishly early, confirming my suspicion that you have some kind of crazy memory-"

"I'm hurt. Couldn't I simply be intelligent? You make me sound like a savant."

"I have no intention of complimenting you," I replied. He took another step closer and I trembled but didn't move an inch.

"What else did you discover?"

He was close enough for me to see the faint stubble on his jaw, so close that he had to look down to meet my gaze, his hands easing out of his pockets as he watched me with an intent expression I couldn't interpret.

"Not much more," I grudgingly admitted, my own gaze darting away. It felt impossible to think straight when he looked at me like that…which I was certain was his intention. He could have no other reason to be here, other than to distract me.

"So you were…" he paused, tilting his head, "stalking me?"

My eyes darted to his face, my annoyance flaring back to life. "It only seemed fair given your prediliction for background checks!"

A soft huff of laughter escaped his lips, ever amused by my anger. I fought down the urge to smack him, glaring at him uselessly.

"You really shouldn't be alone out here," he said softly, his eyes ranging over my face, as if trying to penetrate—as if he looked long enough, he might be able to see inside my head.

It was impossible to stay annoyed when he appeared so fascinated…even as I was telling myself it was a game, that he couldn't mean any of it. "I feel perfectly safe," I finally managed to whisper.

Edward stared at me a moment longer before he tore his gaze away, a faint groan escaping his lips. "This is more complicated than I'd planned," he muttered.

"What do you mean?" I asked, hoping he hadn't heard the plaintive note in my voice.

He reached for my hand, the movement so authoritative that it didn't occur to me to resist. "You should get back to Brno." He turned, pulling me back towards the path. I glanced longingly over my shoulder, reluctant to leave the meadow behind…but knowing there was no way for me to stay.

I wouldn't have been able to keep up had he not had a firm grasp on my hand, his palm smooth and warm against mine. I did my best to match his stride but my voice was breathless when I spoke. "I ran out of gas."

"So it isn't sheer recklessness that has you wandering the Czech countryside." He turned his head to respond but didn't slow his pace, his long legs making quick work of the path.

I tugged at my hand, annoyed at his insistence that I was somehow in danger. But I might as well have been in a vise, his grasp ridiculously firm. "I don't know exactly what you think is going to befall me," I gritted, frowning at the back of his head. If it was possible, his hair was messier than I'd ever seen, strands sticking out in every direction.

We were nearly to the road, the trees thinning, the trail marker just ahead. I tugged at my hand again. "There isn't anything dangerous out here, Edward," I insisted, "unless you're worried about bug bites," I added sarcastically.

The road was just as quiet as when I had left it, the Volkswagen parked several yards ahead. I frowned as I saw the Mercedes that had followed me off the highway parked directly in front of the little car, the windows tinted so dark I couldn't have possibly recognized the driver. Before I could berate him for following me, Edward turned, his body inches from mine. "Nothing of danger?" he asked softly, his eyes hooded.

I was not going to let him frighten me. "Not here," I insisted, side stepping the distracting heat of him and turning toward the Volkswagen. I crossed the gravel in three short steps and was nearly to the driver's side door when I felt his hand on my shoulder. I turned, shrugging away his touch. I was certain he wouldn't hurt me, that he was simply trying to make a point about my vulnerability. I refused to be intimidated.

"That's quite presumptuous of you." The words were barely a murmur but he was so close, my senses so heightened, that they might have been a shout. I instinctivey pressed back against the car door, the steel cold and unyielding against my shoulders. Edward abruptly raised one hand, and then the other, bracing himself against the frame—effectively trapping me. My gaze flew to his, too shocked to speak, feeling like a bird locked in the eyes of a serpent. His lids were low, his expression almost hungry as he stared down at me. He was so close I could feel the air escaping his lips, my own mouth gaping as I forgot to breathe.

"I-" I managed to gulp, then completely forgot what I was going to say as he lowered his head. His breath was a whisper against the hollow at the base of my throat. I wasn't sure if I imagined the faintest sensation, his lips barely brushing the skin there.

"Now," he exhaled. "There are many things…" His nose drew a line up my throat. "…that could be of threat to someone…" His lips were at my jaw, a tickle as he spoke against the skin there, not exactly a kiss but certainly something more. "…like you." He leaned impossibly closer, his nose skimming past my ear to the curtain of my hair, inhaling deeply.

"Like me?" I choked out, the words a gasp.

Edward's arms had bent, his shoulders blocking the sun from my vision…not that I could mind, trembling against the door of Jasper's car, my mouth dry, eyes wide. "Prone to wandering foreign cities after midnight…" he murmured into my hair, his chest just brushing my body. My cheeks raged with blood as my nipples instantly hardened at the sensation. I could hear the grin in his voice as he spoke next. "…and wandering around forests before dawn. A magnet for danger," he concluded, drawing away.

I couldn't meet his gaze, mortified at the response of my body, eyes fixed on my feet. To my relief, my acute embarrassment soon shifted; I didn't realize my muscles had tensed in reaction to Edward's own, a change so subtle, it was only when he'd thrust away from the car with a curse on his lips that I realized what I was responding to.

"Wha…" The word had barely left my mouth when I saw what had caught Edward's gaze. An unmistakable dark stain marked the gravel beneath the Volkswagen, creeping towards our feet. I didn't need to inhale deeply to recognize the smell.

Edward was on his knees, heedless of his jeans, peering beneath the car. I stepped away, grateful for the distraction, crossing my arms over my chest as I stared in confusion at the gasoline darkening the ground. Another swear drifted up from beneath the car before Edward was rearing to his feet, his expression grim. "Dr. Whitlock is going to need a new gas tank."

"What? Why?" I felt, as usual, as if I was two steps behind.

"I'll give you a ride back to your hotel." I frowned at his non-answer, watching with surprise as he turned towards his car. I bit my lip, considering his retreating back in consternation. I momentarily thought about refusing to follow until he answered my question but knew without a doubt how useless that would be. I wondered if he'd simply leave me in the forest, and, with that frightening thought, decided to follow him to the car.

If I thought the Mercedes might give away any clues as to Edward's activities, I was to be sadly disappointed. There were no manila folders with Immanuel's name written on the tab, receipts for private detective agencies, or even crumpled coffee cups that might indicate he was doing his own stake outs. Instead, I was greeted by an immaculate leather interior that felt much like a cocoon after the doors were shut; the noise of the road was rendered almost silent by the plush construction.

We reached the main road quickly. I wanted to question Edward, to try to get some information out of him, some sense of what had happened to Jasper's car—and why the hell was he able to track me down so easily? Unfortunately, I was stymied by the fact that he spent the first few moments fiddling with his phone, his eyes darting between the road and the keypad. I resisted the urge to reach for the wheel but wanted to chastise him for using his phone while driving—the grim expression on his face as well as my ignorance of the traffic laws of the Czech Republic kept me silent.

I bit my lip as I saw him hit the button to dial a number, my eyes going wide as he started barking Czech into the phone. He didn't slow down at all despite the fact that he was on a call, deftly turning towards Brno without bothering to signal. I wavered between fear and anger at his driving, my own foot pressing into the floor of the car, wishing he'd slow down.

When we pulled up to the hotel, it took all of my willpower not to slam out of the car. He had done me a favor, saving me from having to walk back to town, but the certainty that he was having me followed tempered any gratitude I might have felt—not to mention his reckless use of the phone while driving!

To my surprise, I felt his hand on my wrist as I reached for the door. My eyes darted from his hand to his expression and I suddenly found myself unable to breathe at the intensity in his gaze. "A tow truck will retrieve Dr. Whitlock's car," he quietly said after a pregnant pause.

My lips moved but no sound would come out. Finally, my anger forgotten, I breathed, "Thank you."

His lids dropped, concealing his gaze, staring down at my wrist. I could feel his fingers caressing the skin there, gentle and strangely intimate. Sucking in a breath, I pulled the latch of the door, denying the reluctance I felt to leave his presence.

I wasn't sure my feet would support me and wobbled as I stepped onto the street. "Bella?" His voice called from within the car. I ducked to meet his gaze.

"Be safe."


	16. Český Krumlov

Thank you to Sebastien Robichaud for recommending _Incunabula_, and to everyone who has reviewed and written. To answer the most common question, I did live in Prague and have been to almost all of the locations mentioned so far in the text.

**Disclaimer:** Any familiar elements are, as always, S. Meyers'.

* * *

**Fifteen**

_Saint Christina Mirabilis: She exhibited both unusual traits and abilities. She could not stand the odor of other people because she could smell the sin in them, and would climb trees or buildings, or hide in ovens or cupboards to avoid contact. She would roll in fire or handle it without harm, stand in freezing water in the winter for hours, spend long periods in tombs, or allow herself to be dragged under water by a mill wheel, though she never sustained injury. People who knew her were divided in their opinions: she was a holy woman, touched by God, or she was flatly insane._

"Do you remember any loud noises when you were driving?"

Jasper's voice seemed to be coming from a distance, my eyes unfocused as I remembered the flutter of Edward Masen's breath against my throat. "What?"

"Maybe you shouldn't have gotten up so early, Bella," Jasper chuckled ruefully. "You are out of it."

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the cobwebs. "I'm sorry. It's been a strange day."

"I bet," Jasper chuckled again. I was extremely fortunate he was so good-natured, his expression bemused rather than angry when I explained that a tow truck was retrieving his car from a country road. Though he was barely awake, he'd dragged himself down to the street to speak with the driver; I could tell their mix of Czech and English was labored but eventually it was decided that a local auto repair shop would be able to patch the tank that day.

"I'll pay for it," I offered again.

Jasper shook his curly head. "It was an accident, Bella. There's really no need."

We'd been sitting in the library of St. Thomas Abbey for nearly two hours, combing through the surprisingly robust collection of records: journals, death certificates, receipts for sales and purchases of everything from crates of potatoes to postage stamps. I could decipher very little of it since most of the documents were in Czech but found myself mesmerized by the faded hand writing, so much more formal and lovely than the scrawl seen in this age of email and computers.

I may have been taking refuge in this evidence of another era, another world, in an attempt to block out the events of that morning. A long shower had done little to dispel the confusion I felt after…after what exactly? He hadn't kissed me. He hadn't embraced me. I wondered, not for the first time, if that was deliberate—if he was keeping himself just above reproach, just beyond any attempt I might make to accuse him of inappropriateness. My stomach clenched and I rapidly pushed away the thought that had been forming, denying I felt any attraction for my rival.

"I don't know that we're going to find anything," Jasper sighed, thrusting a hand through his wheat-colored curls.

My head darted up, jarred from my treacherous thoughts. "The abbott wasn't very encouraging," I acknowledged, spreading my fingers over the dusty ledger that took up much of the table in front of me.

Jasper nodded in response. "I was hoping he might be mistaken, though…"

The abbott had been kind but firm, shaking his gray head when Jasper asked if the abbey had experienced any recent losses. He'd been equally grim when asked if he'd ever come into contact with a man by the name of Immanuel Flohr. "Ne, ne." And there had been no gardeners on staff for years; with the help of hand gestures and a dictionary, we'd discovered that the grounds had been taken care of by volunteers from the local womens' civic group.

"Should we cut our losses?" I quietly offered. I didn't want to admit failure but staying any longer when the chances were slim that Immanuel had ended up here put us at no advantage. Masen likely had teams of people around the Czech Republic and, if we were at a dead end, we needed to move on quickly until we came across Immnauel's trail again. I refused to put any import behind Masen personal appearance in Brno; so far, his presence had been evident in some shape or form nearly everywhere. He could be just as lost as us…or so I hoped.

A ringing sound interrupted the response Jasper had been forming. Closing his mouth, he reached into his pocket for his phone. "The car is ready? Yes. Alright. Thank you. Fantastic." He looked up with a faint grimace after ending the call. "There's your answer." He paused, sighing before shutting the folder of receipts in front of him. "I just don't get the sense…" He looked around the quiet library. "This abbey is in the middle of the city…the second largest city in the Czech Republic. It just doesn't feel…right."

I nodded slowly. "I know what you mean. If Flohr was being covert…if he was trying to leave the country…"

"This place is so central." He paused, then a rush of words spilled forth. "I don't want to pretend as if I know him, but we've learned so much about him. And Brno, this abbey-"

"It's just not right," I agreed.

Jasper stood with a wry smile. "Then we should hit the road. Český Krumlov shouldn't be too busy this time of year but the castle there is quite the tourist attraction. I don't want to be scrambling for a hotel when there's so much we need to look into."

I nodded, standing as well. We found the abbot and thanked him for making the library available for our perusal before exiting to the din of city traffic and clanging trams. Jasper adjusted the seat in the rental car the hotel had arranged before starting the engine. Between the logistics of picking up his car at the mechanic, dropping off the rental, packing up, and checking out of our hotel, it was nearly another hour before we were back on the highway.

I couldn't help a sigh of relief as Brno receded behind us. A bright midday sun shone through the windshield, the perfect complement to the upbeat music burbling from the radio. I knew I shouldn't feel relief that we'd failed to pick up Immanuel's trail, but there was some satisfaction in being able to cross off a possibility. I swallowed at the idea of leaving Masen behind, completely unwilling to analyze the knot in my stomach that accompanied that thought. Besides, I had an uncanny feeling he was going to show up in Český Krumlov regardless.

We hadn't been on the road long before both of our stomachs were rumbling. Jasper signaled to exit the highway; just as we merged over, I saw a Renault speed by. I could have sworn the dark-haired driver was looking in our direction, craning my own head to try to make out the license plate, a bumper sticker, anything that might identify the car that I was becoming increasingly certain was following us.

"Jasper, did you see…" My voice trailed away, realizing that if I confessed my suspicions, I'd also have to reveal my own interactions with Masen. With how wrong-headed I'd been about Rozalina, I didn't want to come across as disturbingly paranoid—Jasper was probably already worried about my mental health given my disappearing act that morning.

"What?"

"Nothing." I sank into my seat, vowing to keep my eyes peeled for the suspicious Renault. I would figure out how Masen was keeping tabs on me, even if it meant having to confront whoever was on our tail.

The sleepy village of Jabloňov offered little distraction. We stopped at a gas station, scarfed down sandwiches while Jasper topped up the tank, and were soon back on the highway. I couldn't help my frustration as the light began to fade from the sky, disappointed that I wouldn't be able to see well enough to make out whether any of the cars behind us were the Renault.

Jasper and I arrived in Český Krumlov near seven, the narrow, winding streets reminding me of a miniature version of Prague after the country highways. Buildings whose pedigrees clearly predated the French Revolution crowded close, the cobbled streets causing the car to rock and sway as we sought out a hotel for the duration. We were soon checked in to a surprisingly modern establishment, the white walls and simple furniture in stark contrast to the worn stone exterior.

"Isn't it crazy how, despite sitting all day in a car, you're starving anyways?" Jasper asked as we made our way back into the night in search of food. I had to nod with a tired smile. It had been a strange, eventful day and with my brain rapidly approaching maximum capacity, I was finding it harder and harder to push away the memory of Edward's breath against my throat, my hair, his teasing, provocative words.

"You alright, Miss Svan?" Jasper asked. He'd been speaking and I'd clearly missed some verbal cue.

"Yeah, yeah," I nodded again, ducking my head.

"Does this restaurant look okay?"

I nodded, barely taking in the dark exterior before me. I felt guilty for the increasing amount of information I was keeping from him but I couldn't think what good it would do to confess that Masen had approached me…on multiple occasions now—with increasing familiarity.

"I know this is wearing," Jasper's voice was sympathetic, only amplifying my guilt.

"I'm okay. Just tired after getting up too early."

"And re-enacting Hansel and Gretel out in the woods," he laughed as we took a seat at a long table flanked by benches rather than seats. His hazel eyes were rueful and amused; he looked as if he might ruffle my hair at any moment. At my dour expression, he just laughed again and added, "At least it wasn't Red Riding Hood!"

I felt the blood drain from my face and looked away, uncomfortable with how close Jasper was getting to a version of the truth.

"I thought you said you were hungry," I muttered, my eyes fixed on the menu. Each item was helpfully written in Czech, German and English. The medieval interior was matched by simple, hearty fare; soup served in heavy loaves of bread, steak cut from a side of beef turning over a spit, and beer in giant steins. Despite my inner turmoil, between the heavy meal and dim interior, I was soon yawning and eager to get back to my bed.

Jasper's voice was firm as we parted ways in the corridor of the hotel. "I figured we could start here in town—it's where the hospital is at so our best bet for death certificates will probably be there. We'll have to double back to go to Zlata Koruna but there aren't any hotels there—and it's only fifteen minutes away."

I stifled another yawn as I nodded at Jasper's plan, thinking only of my pillow. Despite my exhaustion, my eyes stayed wide after I'd turned off the lamp, watching the play of moonlight as it danced through the blinds. Between the guilt I felt at keeping Jasper in the dark and my own growing anxiety at the certainty that there was much more going on than I was aware of, sleep felt impossible. I drifted in an out over the course of the night, tossing and turning, groaning out loud when, far too soon, the phone was ringing with my wake-up call.

A shower did little to dispel my fog. The sympathy and concern in Jasper's gaze only aggravated me; I found myself slamming the door of his car as we set off towards the Nemocnice Český Krumlov. I was glad he didn't say anything. I stared down at my hands, wondering if I should apologize for my clearly crappy mood.

"Here we are." The hospital wasn't far from the town center, a regional facility that sprawled up a hillside, multiple outbuildings jutting out amongst blooming trees. Though it was early, the parking lot was already half full, medical staff garbed in scrubs and white coats puffing on cigarettes as they headed towards their respective posts.

We were soon situated in a cramped room filled with near-to-bursting file cabinets. I had thought we might encounter more resistance at a facility that, unlike a library or a religious institution, had no purpose or benefit in helping us. The woman at the reception counter, however, was the perfect combination of overwhelmed by the bustle around her, and charmed by Jasper's fumbling Czech. She quickly waved us down a hall after barely glancing at Jasper's passport and university identification, a warm smile spreading over her features when he sincerely thanked her in Czech. "Děkuji!"

"It's not as if death certificates aren't public in the United States," Jasper mumbled at my incredulous look.

I held up my hands, wordlessly indicating I wasn't passing judgment. I knew I wasn't in a position to judge anyone—not Jasper, not the receptionist, nor whatever medical records standards might be the norm for here.

An hour later, my calm acceptance of foreign standards had been replaced by frothing frustration. I stood, elbow deep in the top drawer of one of the filing cabinets. "Why are these records such a mess? They're not alphabetical—birth certificates are mixed in with death certificates and I just came across a receipt for a colonoscopy!" I knew my anger wasn't entirely due to the state of the medical records, that it was a combination of being tired, guilt-ridden and beyond confused…and that the confusion wasn't simply limited to the search for this mysterious monk and his impossible copy of the _Aurea Legenda_. I was confused about my own feelings, my own purpose…even my identity.

"Maybe you should get some fresh air." I whirled at Jasper's words, poised to shut down his request…but the rebuttal died on my lips as I saw the suggestion was genuine, that he wasn't just trying to get me out of his hair. His hazel eyes were concerned, looking up from the manila folder on the table in front of him, a faint frown furrowing his brow.

"You're—you're right," I stuttered, wondering at my own faculties.

"I'm sure there's a coffee machine or something around here. Get your blood moving, get some caffeine, and we'll power through this," Jasper's voice was firm, his faith in me clearly much stronger than my own. I could only swallow and nod, turning towards the door.

I didn't want to remind the receptionist of our presence and give her an excuse to ask us to leave, so darted down a side hallway following the 'Výjezd' signs. I was soon greeted by a loading dock, concrete all around, blue sky overhead. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts, desperate to regain some sense of control. Given my emotional state, I was surprised by the sudden calm I felt when I saw a familiar set of broad shoulders and dark curly hair.

I was far too focused on not losing sight of the man I was certain was Emmett, Edward Masen's assistant and security, to feel any panic. Instead, I felt my pulse slow as I observed him approach a car parked no more than a half dozen yards away. I didn't dare move, certain I'd trip or crack my shin on something and inevitably draw his attention. Regardless, I gasped when a woman reared from the car, clearly agitated, her halo of red curls wild around her face.

I slapped my hand over my mouth, certain I must have given myself away with the noise, and only relaxed after I saw their conversation continue unabated. It was the woman from the library in Dresden! What could she be doing in Český Krumlov? Of course it had to be about the _Golden Legend_. But…

I was too far away to make out any words but felt my curiosity grow by leaps and bounds as I watched them talk. It was clearly an argument. Emmett turned, handily providing a view of his profile; his expression was a mixture of patience and restraint, his lips thin as he spoke. The redhead, her green eyes hysterical even at this distance, gestured violently, the high notes of her voice drifting to me, shrill though I couldn't make out the words. Emmett seemed to be speaking with some finality that she was denying, shaking her head before slamming into the car. A few short moments later, she gunned the engine and peeled out of the lot.

Emmett remained only a moment before approaching his own car a short distance away. I was disappointed to see it was not a Renault, the Mercedes logo distinctive even from afar.

I remained on the loading dock for several minutes after he was gone, trying to make sense of what I'd just seen, before giving up and returning inside.

I walked through the door of the little office to find Jasper on his feet, his expression elated. He might have been forgiven for thinking me entirely insane when I evinced no surprise at his gleeful announcement. "I found it!"

"The death certificate?" I calmly asked.

Jasper held up the piece of paper, his grin wide and triumphant. "Immanuel Flohr!"

I nodded, slumping into the chair before me.


	17. Zlatá Koruna

Thanks again to SebastienR. for sending so many wonderful readers my way.

**Disclaimer:** I just wanted to see how Bella and Edward would deal with a setting other than Forks or Volterra.

* * *

**Sixteen**

_Saint Gerard Majella: the son of a tailor who died when he was 12, leaving the family in poverty. Gerard tried to join the Capuchins, but his health prevented it. He was ultimately accepted as a lay brother serving the congregation as sacristan, gardener, porter, and tailor. When falsely accused by a pregnant woman of being the father of her child, he retreated to silence; she later recanted and cleared him._

The lanyard somehow seemed out of place, the plastic scratched, the polyester fibers fraying, hanging from the slender neck of such a beautiful woman. Simona Svobodová, as the name on the lanyard identified the nurse, could have competed with Rozalina in terms of beauty. Eyes of pale blue were clearly distracted, darting between a clipboard in her hand and our earnest expressions. Her white blond hair was pulled into a messy pony tail that looked sexily touseled; I was certain no one had ever mentioned haystacks when seeing her first thing in the morning.

"Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with us," Jasper began, his voice tainted with the perfect amount of obsequiousness to get her attention. We had waited for nearly an hour after the receptionist paged the head nurse that had been assigned to the unit where Flohr was admitted.

"It is my break." Luckily, she appeared to be fluent in English, having waved away Jasper's poor attempt at a Czech greeting with clear impatience.

"Right," Jasper nodded. He pulled the copy of the death certificate from the manila folder where he'd been keeping maps, his notes, and other documents. "We were told you were the attending nurse to this gentleman."

She took the piece of paper with slender fingers, nodding as she quickly scanned the text. "Yes. I remember. The monk."

I couldn't help my sharp inhale, biting my lip to suppress the sound. Simona glanced at me but Jasper was speaking, regaining her attention. "For which monastery?"

"Zlatá Koruna, of course." Her words were clipped but not unkind; her pager went off as she was speaking, indicating just how busy she was.

"Do you recall any details about his admission?" She had pulled the pager from the pocket of the shapeless lab coat that did nothing to hide her lithe frame.

Glancing up from the number she responded, "He was unconscious and did not revive. I'm sorry." She looked over her shoulder, clearly trying to end the conversation.

Jasper spoke quickly, "Did he have any possessions?"

She shook her head abruptly. "No, nothing." Pausing, she considered us, intelligent gaze darting between our disappointed expresssions. Reaching into the pocket of her lab coat, she offered us a slightly bent business card. "Here is my number. If you have more questions, please call." A brilliant smile accompanied the last words, disarming in its loveliness.

"Thank you," I managed to whisper. Jasper repeated the words, slipping the card into his folder reluctantly. She turned, her long stride soon taking her out of sight, lost in the mix of patients and hospital staff passing through the corridors. The smell of antispetic was beginning to get to me, overpowering now that our hopes had been dashed for what felt like the hundredth time.

I could sense that Jasper had the same misgivings as me, his mouth twisted and brow furrowed. "Maybe it's in the possession of the monastery?" His voice was faintly hopeful.

"It's the only place we'll find more information about him." I could hear the determined note in my voice despite the fact that my stomach felt like it was full of stones. Anxiety sent my pulse fluttering with the thought that we were too late—a thought I pushed away with all of my power. I refused to believe that Emmett's presence in Český Krumlov meant that Masen had beaten us to the book. We'd come too far.

Despite that thought, I found myself peering around me as we drove to Zlatá Koruna, looking for a familiar Mercedes with windows too tinted to see the driver. I knew I was rousing Jasper's concern again, his curly head covertly turning to glance at me once or twice as I nearly pressed to the glass of the passenger side window to stare at the traffic going by. Under other circumstances I might have found it funny, the thought of him watching me trying to watch for Edward or Emmett.

"You okay?" he asked, clearly trying not to sound too concerned.

"Yeah," I muttered. I settled back into my seat as the car approached a narrow bridge, trees crowding close as we left the town of Český Krumlov behind. "Is this the Vltava?" I asked, trying to change the subject.

"Yeah," Jasper answered, glancing at me again, his hazel eyes dubious. "It snakes through the whole area—we'll cross it twice more before we get there." He went on to explain that the monastery dated from the fourteenth century. "The king of Bohemia was given a thorn by the French king; it was said to come from the crown of thorns worn by Christ."

I stared at him with wide eyes, recalling the research I'd done narrowing down the southern monasteries of the Czech Republic—it felt like weeks had passed since that desperate day at the internet café. "Hence the name."

Jasper nodded. "Zlatá Koruna. Golden Crown."

The name had struck me at the time given the initial tale that had set this entire trip in motion from the start. "But there's no silver church here?" I couldn't help asking, eyes narrowing as the road ahead became a single lane, approaching another bridge.

Jasper shook his head. "No. There's a Chapel of the Guardian Angels and the church there is to the Virgin Mary."

"Kutná and zlatá," I murmured. It wasn't as if the words could be confused.

"He said 'silver church.' I'm certain of it," Jasper insisted, referring to the elderly man who had confessed the story that set this entire adventure in motion.

"I don't doubt you," I sighed, then admitted, "The name struck me at the time. Golden Crown. _Golden Legend_. It just seemed too convenient a coincidence." Jasper slowed as the barest hint of a town rose before us, a few cottages scattered around a main square of ashy cobble stones. The road began to climb the moment the village was behind us, rising toward a copse of trees draped in green, resplendent in the spring sunshine.

Emerald lawns first greeted my gaze, so manicured and neat I couldn't help thinking it would be lovely to have a picnic on them were the circumstances different. The lawns terminated at walls the color of rich vanilla, the structure behind them a Rococo confection of yellow with rows of white columns. Rearing above it, I could see the pitched roof of the church and perhaps the chapel, the tiles rosy and red in contrast.

I tried to take solace in the fact that there were no other cars present, gaze darting around me as we approached the main entrance. The enormous hall just past the ornately carved doors at first appeared to be empty; I didn't notice the elderly woman perched behind a walnut desk in the corner until she coughed.

Though she wasn't wearing a nun's habit, her forbidding manner gave the impression that she might have taken orders regardless; she shushed Jasper when he tried to speak in a normal tone of voice that admittedly echoed in the cavernous hall. So, with a mixture of hand gestures and whispered Czech and English, we were told that the abbott would meet us shortly.

We'd waited no more than fifteen minutes, too intimidated to speak, when a door in the panelling opened, revealing a man who looked far too young to be an abbott. His pale features were unlined, blue eyes placidly gazing from beneath white blond brows. "Dobrý den," Jasper called in nervous Czech, the quaver in his voice probably audible only to me. I wondered if he was anxious because of the baleful pseudo-nun or because we were so close to understanding this mystery.

"Dobrý den," the abbott responded with a faint smile. "It is a beautiful day," he continued in near flawless English. "Perhaps you would like to discuss in the cloister?"

"Certainly," Jasper replied brightly, glancing at me before following the abbott through the hidden door. While leading the way, he introduced himself as Brother Alois and explained that he had succeeded the prior abbott only four years ago. Wide corridors with the same bare, stripped look of Saint Barbara's in Kutná Hora echoed with even the soft slap of my ballet flats; I imagined Jasper's exuberant Southern accent resounded for several minutes after we had passed. The corridor soon opened onto a walkway that bordered the outer edge of the building—a loggia like I'd only ever seen in pictures. High, carved arches looked over blue skies, the stone tiles brightened with half-circles of sunshine.

I could no longer listen to the polite small talk Jasper and Brother Alois were exchanging, staring with dumb wonder upon the courtyard. The low, perfectly trimmed hedges made me think of paintings I'd seen of formal English gardens, the grass bisected by two narrow paths that joined in the very center of the courtyard, forming a cross. Hydrangeas threatened to bloom, the leaves of other shrubs and flowers waving gently in the breeze. The faint sound of the river was audible above it all, a soft rushing noise that reminded me of the Puget Sound. I inhaled deeply. He had lived here. He had tended these grounds. This was his home.

"Ah, yes," Brother Alois was nodding. "Immanuel." His lips momentarily thinned. "A sad loss." Jasper was nodding in turn but the abbott was speaking again before he could ask another question. "It was fortunate we could give the last rites before the medical personnel arrived."

I felt Jasper's eyes dart my way but could not meet his gaze, suddenly overwhelmed by a sadness I couldn't explain. I bit my lip and stared determinedly at my feet, allowing my hair to hide my face. I felt silly for being so emotional and wondered if it was the cumulative effect of this insane week—this insane endeavor.

"So he was ordained here."

"Oh, no." The abbott's voice was surprised but not belittling. "He was the gardener. He lived as simply as any one of us but he never wished to take orders." I lifted my gaze at these final words, breath caught in my throat. Could our theories, our wild suppositions, be true?

"Never ordained?" Jasper repeated, voicing the surprise I was feeling.

"No," the abbott shook his head, folding his pale hands before him. "He attended services and took his meals with us…but he lived in a cell outside the walls and he was not ordained. I did not ask him his reasoning. It is between him and God."

"Of course," Jasper's voice was faint. Then, recovering, "Did you ever get the sense that Immanuel was not his name?"

It was the abbott's turn to be surprised, gazing at us frankly. "Yes." He paused, as if considering, then hesitantly continued. "He was sometimes agitated. When this happened, he would insist we call him Isaac."

"Isaac?" Jasper could barely keep his voice down. I resisted the urge to shush him as the pseudo-nun had done. I was biting my own lip to keep from rushing into speculation, the flesh raw beneath my teeth.

"I thought it was religious…fever." A faint line appeared between the abbott's sparse brows as if reconsidering what he had just shared. "People have many reasons for coming to the monastery and the path to God is difficult; I would not have questioned Immanuel's motives."

"Of course not," Jasper held up his hands as if to make clear that we did not wish to pry…as contrary as that might be to our true wishes. Changing tactics, he asked, "Does the monastery have a library?"

Brother Alois' expression shifted, the small smile returning to his lips. "I will tell you the same thing I told our other visitors. Zlatá Koruna has no rare books."

Jasper barely restrained his groan, the sound emerging as a strangled cough from his throat. I finally spoke, covering for him. "Thank you so much for your assistance, Brother Alois. This has been most helpful." I almost choked on the words myself, the knot in my stomach returning as I couldn't help wondering if we'd reached another dead end.

Back in the Volkswagen, Jasper lost his equilibrium for the first time in the course of this long, arduous search, banging the flat of his palm against the steering wheel. I knew it was my turn to be calm, lifting a hand to his shoulder. "There has to be more to this," I quietly insisted. Another strangled groan was his only response, staring with wild eyes at the ceiling of the car. "Let's get some lunch," I said softly, glancing at the clock in the dashboard. "It's been a long morning and we can't think on empty stomachs."

Jasper took a deep breath, placing his hands resolutely on the steering wheel. "Okay."

I didn't speak as we retraced the path we'd taken to the monastery, my mind spinning too furiously, my thoughts too scattered, to try and articulate anything at that moment. Immanuel Flohr, the supposed monk, the gardener, was not fiction. His story, what we'd managed to uncover, was extraordinary. But that did not mean that he had ever possessed the Burgundian _Golden Legend_.

I worried my lip, brows lowering. But Emmett…Edward…they had yet to return to Seattle. As much as I didn't want to rely on their presence as reasurrance, it was the only thing I could hold on to in that moment. Given everything that had happened so far that day, I couldn't even begin to grapple with the strange situation I'd witnessed in the parking lot of the hospital. A research assistant at the end of her rope, like Jasper had been only a moment before? A private detective being reprimanded for getting too close to her subject? I simply couldn't know.

Jasper broke the silence first, clearing his throat as we crossed the first bridge leading towards the highway and Český Krumlov. "I bet he was Jewish."

I nodded hesitantly. "It seems like a good possibility," I finally admitted.

"C'mon! Isaac?" He chuckled ruefully. "That's why he never took orders. He believed in God—maybe he even believed in Christ—but he couldn't completely abandon the faith he grew up with."

"It does make sense." My brain was far too taxed to try to disagree.

"But the abbott said there were other visitors." The affront in Jasper's voice might have been comical if it didn't have such dire consequences for our search. "Who, besides Masen, is investigating this?"

I couldn't help thinking of the redhead. Was she another adversary? Was that why she and Emmett had been arguing? "I don't know," I finally breathed. "But it's hard to believe this is a dead end. This is where he lived…until the end."

Jasper exhaled noisely, the sound exasperated. "Maybe he was just a hallucinating old fart," his voice was dismissive, running a hand through his curls. "The abbott said he got agitated. If you lived through the Dresden bombing, and Stalinism, you'd probably be a little unhinged, too."

I protested, almost defensive of this poor man I would never meet. "Alzheimers did not give him a copy of the _Abbreviato_ to leave in Kutná Hora. There _has_ to be more to this story."

Jasper breathed deeply, clearly trying to temper his frustration with reason. "Look, we'll sit down for lunch, get our thoughts together, maybe…" But I didn't hear anything else he said, the words fading as my eyes caught the dark spot in the passenger side window, a blot that grew larger, taking on the shape of the familiar Renault.

"Jasper," I whispered, uncaring that he was still speaking. We'd nearly reached our hotel and the car was making no attempt to pass us, slowing as Jasper braked, the right blinker flashing when Jasper signalled to park.

"What's up?" He glanced my way as he pulled into a space, then quickly looked again, most likely because all of the blood had drained from my face.

"This car has been following us." The words were a whisper, barely emerging past frozen lips, gazing beyond his shoulder where the Renault had pulled into a parking spot no more than ten paces away.

"What?" He pulled on the emergency brake without looking down, his hazel eyes still fixed on my features. I couldn't blame him for the doubt in his voice, brows low as his expression conveyed confusion and concern.

Before I could repeat myself or try to explain, a firm knock on the driver's side window terminated all conversation. Jasper's gaze jerked from mine, turning with even greater surprise to the looming figure standing outside the car door. I could make out little beyond Jasper's curly head but there was no mistaking the police badge that suddenly flashed in the window, insistently pressed into the glass.

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Lovely pictures of Zlatá Koruna can be seen here: klaster-zlatakoruna (dot) eu/fotogalerie/exteriery/


	18. The Cell

**Thank you so much for all of your reviews and emails.**

**Disclaimer:** Any familiar elements belong to S. Meyer.

* * *

**Seventeen**

_Saint Fiacre: __His unwanted fame as one skilled with herbs, a healer and holy man, caused disciples to flock to him. Seeking greater solitude, he left his native land and sought refuge in France. Here, Fiacre built an oratory in honor of the Virgin Mary, a hospice in which he received strangers, and a cell in which he himself lived apart. He lived a life of great mortification, in prayer, fast, vigil, and the manual labor of the garden._

My heart felt as if it was pounding against my ribs as I stepped from the car. I found I couldn't lift my eyes from my feet and as a result my knee glanced against the bumper as I rounded the back of the car to join Jasper.

Over the rushing noise in my ears I could vaguely hear voices but could not make out the words. Only when I felt Jasper's hand on my elbow did I realize we were being asked to go inside and speak with the officer privately. I tried to push down the panic, the sense of everything going wrong all at once, but too much had happened that day, too many mysteries were presenting themselves just as others appeared to be solved—it was too much for my mind to bear. I tried to breathe deeply, forcing myself to lift my eyes as we stood in an empty conference room provided by the hotel receptionist.

"I am sorry for surprising you, Dr. Whitlock, Miss Swan." I felt my pulse slow as I registered the kindness of the deep voice that was speaking. My vision cleared with the intake of oxygen and I forced myself to look up…and up…meeting the dark eyes of the very tall police officer. My eyes widened as I took in his appearance. Though he wasn't wearing a uniform, there was something officious in his stance, hands deep in the pockets of his olive trench coat. I didn't realize how accustomed I'd become to seeing people with fair coloring over the past week and tried to hide my shock at his coppery skin and true black hair.

"How can we help you?" Jasper's voice was brisk, clearly holding it together though I knew he was caught off guard—he hadn't even known we were being followed!

"I am Detective Jakub Černý with the Prague Police." He shifted on his feet before pulling a hand from his coat pocket and offering it in greeting. Jasper reached forward to shake it, attempting to show no anxiety. I glanced between them and tried to mimic Jasper's fearlessness…though my knees were trembling.

Detective Černý continued. "The department received an anonymous tip three days ago. This person stated you and Miss Swan were smuggling illegal goods from the country."

"What?" Jasper and I barked at the same time, the word shocked and loud. My mind immediately went to my father, what he would think, how disappointed he would be if I was accused of such a thing.

Černý raised his hands as if to soothe us. "Do not be concerned. Police have followed you in Prague, Brno and here. We concluded the tip was false and made…" he paused, as if thinking of the expression. "Made in bad faith."

"Of course," Jasper blustered, throwing his hands in the air. "I'm a visiting professor—why would I jeopardize my post by doing something illegal!"

"I promise you, Dr. Whitlock, no charges will be filed." He held up his hands again; they looked as large as baseball mitts, the palms visibly lighter than his tan features.

"Who would do such a thing?" His mind moving to the next natural question, Jasper spoke the thought out loud, his tone shifting from outraged to speculative. "A false tip…and for such a serious charge…"

"That is why I intercepted you," Detective Černý responded. Wordlessly, he gestured at the circle of chairs in the center of the conference room.

I was grateful to sit down, my mind churning with this new information, struggling to make sense of it as I focused on breathing evenly, trying to calm myself. I didn't think I'd yet recovered from the sight of that badge pressed to the glass; I'd never gotten a traffic ticket, much less arrested. The thought of a foreign prison, a foreign legal system, of being irrevocably banned from entering a country after I'd just come to realize how much I wanted to travel…I forced myself to stop following that mental path; such thoughts certainly weren't helping my anxiety, my breathing becoming labored again.

Detective Černý was explaining to Jasper how the squad had reached the conclusion that we weren't criminals. "You visit hospitals, libraries, monasteries—this is not the behavior of smugglers. You travel lightly and take nothing with you. Background checks confirmed your professions and lack of criminal record this morning." He paused, leaning forward, elbows propped against his knees. "This is why I approached you now."

Jasper appeared to have relaxed but his brows were still low, his lips a thin, grim line. "I see."

"This is a very serious charge, Dr. Whitlock," Detective Černý repeated Jasper's words. "The tip was completely anonymous—no name, no detail, the voice disguised. The police must investigate this person. Do you know who would accuse you?"

At that moment, it occurred to me that the damaged gas tank might not have been an accident.

I felt my face drain of blood for the second time that day and could only be thankful that I was sitting as I would have almost certainly otherwise fainted. Luckily, neither Jasper or Detective Černy appeared to notice my epiphany, continuing to speak. "No!" Jasper exclaimed, rearing back in his seat, hazel eyes wide. "Not Edward Masen…"

My head was shaking involuntarily, the motion occurring without a conscious decision to deny the conclusion. Jasper didn't seem to notice my reaction, eyes unfocused as he mused on the possibilities. Lifting a hand to his chin, he continued to think out loud. "He's ruthless…but not unscrupulous…"

"Edward Masen?" Detective Černý's tone was surprised, dark eyes momentarily widening. My gaze darted to his face, the recognition in his voice catching my attention.

"You know him?" I spoke before I could think through the question, still too shell-shocked to conceal how Masen affected me.

Detective Černý's expression shifted, darkening, inky brows lowering with annoyance. "I know of him." He turned to Jasper, as if the topic displeased him. "I believe you are correct; it is not Mr. Masen."

Jasper seemed not to note the detective's expression, still too absorbed in this new complication. "No," he murmured in agreement. I bit my lip, wondering if I'd imagined the detective's response to Masen's name. I lifted my eyes and caught him quickly looking away from me.

No. I refused to distrust my instincts. I'd wondered for the past week if I was crazy, paranoid, delusional—but Masen _was_ tracking me somehow and my suspicion about the Renault was now proven to have a basis in reality. As I continued to gaze at Detective Černý, I knew I should confess how involved Masen had been in our pursuit of the _Aurea Legenda_…but I didn't know that I could trust him…and, if I were to be entirely honest, I didn't want him to re-examine Masen as a potential suspect.

The detective was the first to interrupt the lengthening silence, abruptly rising to his feet. "Please call me if you think of anything. I will be in Český Krumlov through the weekend." He handed Jasper a card; Jasper rose sluggishly to take it, still lost in thought. They shook hands, the detective nodding in my direction as he turned to the door.

"I need to lay down."

The words burst forth the moment the door had closed behind the detective, unable to hide the shrill note in my voice. Avoiding Jasper's gaze, I lifted a hand to my eyes and rubbed them tiredly. I could feel the panic rising again and desperately pushed it down, trying to hold it together.

"This is the last thing we need," Jasper muttered. Then, as if sensing my distress he raised his head. "I completely understand. I want to—" he paused, as if gathering himself, trying to regain the track we'd been on before Jakub Černý surprised us in the parking lot. "I want to do some research, check in with Rozalina."

I nodded shortly, continuing to avoid his gaze. Though I didn't regret keeping my interactions with Edward from the detective, I couldn't help feeling guilty for leaving Jasper in the dark…only, I couldn't know what purpose it would serve, other than to make him as frantic and paranoid as me.

I darted quickly through the lobby, not daring to look back to see if Jasper noticed my odd, reticent behavior. I flew up the stairs, unsurprised to find myself breathless as I reached the top.

I locked the door of my hotel room behind me, dismayed to see the bright light of midday pouring through the window. I collapsed onto the bed, not certain if I wanted to scream or cry. Pulling a pillow over my face, I forced myself to breathe deeply, trying to relax, trying to suppress everything that had happened over the course of this day—this week. I wanted to open my eyes and find myself in my bedroom in my apartment back in Seattle, the faint sound of Alice's music piping from behind the door, the gray light of the northwest beyond the window.

Instead, I opened my eyes to the green of the forest surrounding Charlie's house. Aware in some corner of my mind that I was dreaming, I felt no fear as I immediately plunged among the trees, seeking, searching. I knew I was getting farther from civilization, suddenly cognizant of the sound of the ocean crashing in my ears, tree branches whipping past, snagging my hair. But I had to find it, I had to do as I was bid. The ocean was growing louder as the trees thinned, a roaring sound that drowned out the ragged rasp of my breathing, running, stumbling, trying to reach the light—

The trees parted and suddenly the sky was wheeling over my head, feet sliding from gravel to nothing, the ground dropping away to swirling water below. I cried out, arms flailing for purchase—then gasped as my body jerked through the air, my fall stopped short by the warm hand wrapped around my forearm. Panting, pulse racing, I looked up to see Edward Masen above me, green eyes darkly intense. "Give me your other hand," he breathed, reaching down to me. I could feel his grasp slipping, the pinch of his fingers against my skin. "Trust me," he insisted through gritted teeth, desperation filling his gaze.

"Why should I?" I whispered, searching his eyes, longing to find the answer there.

"Bella?"

I reared up from the mattress, breath caught in my throat, my armpits damp with sweat. My eyes darted around the impersonal hotel room, trying to absorb the fact that I wasn't in the forests of the Olympic peninsula, or my cosy, book-filled bedroom back in Seattle. My bag sat on the single, uncomfortable Ikea chair in the corner, my sweats draped over the door that led into the bathroom. A rap against the door sounded from the hallway and I realized that the knocking must have woken me up, Jasper's voice calling from the other side.

"Bella, are you up?"

I stumbled to my feet, crossing the short space to the door and turning the lock. Jasper looked slightly taken aback and I knew I must look a mess, hair mussed, clammy with sweat, and almost certainly wild-eyed from that vivid dream. He spoke slowly, as if to account for my grogginess. "I know it's only been an hour but I got a hold of Brother Alois and he's willing to show us the cell where Immanuel lived."

"That's great!" I exclaimed. Then, lifting a hand to my hair, I said, "Give me a minute and I'll meet you in the lobby." Jasper nodded, concern clouding his hazel eyes as he reluctantly turned down the corridor. I took a steadying breath after closing the door, resolving to get my act together to at least allay Jasper's obvious fears about my mental wellbeing.

As jarring as it might have been to learn that someone had made a false tip to the police, Detective Černý had made it clear he was not going to pursue an investigation. And while it was disconcerting to say the least to know that someone out there wished me harm—to the point that they'd risk my safety by puncturing Jasper's gas tank—knowing the detective was going to be present in Česky Krumlov was reassuring. Besides, nothing had actually happened as a result of the damaged gas tank and the anonymous tip was probably only meant to distract us. No one could really want to hurt me or Jasper.

After quickly brushing my hair and splashing cold water on my face, I changed into my last clean shirt, a henley with the top button missing. I sighed as I caught my reflection in the mirror; I was pale, my cheeks hollow, eyes too large with worry and the fear I was trying to convince myself I wasn't feeling. Straightening my spine, I reminded myself that I was a police chief's daughter and would not be made to feel afraid.

In the Volkswagen, with trees rushing past and sunlight pouring through the windows, it was difficult to believe any malevolent force could be at work against us. Between the beauty of the day and Jasper's focus on Flohr, I was able to forget my worries—if only for a short time. "Of course there were too many results for the surname alone, and I got no results for the full name." His excitement was evident, like a little boy on Christmas morning.

"But for Isaac Flohr…" I asked, leaving the sentence hanging, knowing he was eager to complete it.

"The son of a Jewish publisher," Jasper was gleeful, barely paying attention to the road as we crossed the Vltava for the third time that day. "From a family of wealthy Prague Jews."

"You're kidding," I knew he wasn't but couldn't quite believe that our speculations could be verified.

"No!" he crowed, eyes sparkling as we sped too quickly through a village, pigeons fluttering from the town square in the Volkswagen's path. "It's not impossible that there could have been other people with that name…but the time period fits. The father's profession fits. His religion accounts for the secrecy and moving around." He grinned. "It makes so much sense."

"There were a lot of Jewish people in Prague?" I asked, frowning. Not for the first time, I wished I was more familiar with the history of this part of the world.

"At times, it was one of the few places they could go when they were expelled from Austria or Moravia…or Germany. In the 1700s, some historians estimate they accounted for a quarter of Prague's population."

"Wow," I could only breathe. Such diversity was unknown in Seattle.

"Before the Czech Republic was annexed, the numbers were still quite high—as high as twenty per cent of the city."

I couldn't help asking the question though I knew the answer would sadden me. "And after?"

Jasper's lips thinned. "A few thousand people. And the few who were left were ultimately persecuted under Communism."

I couldn't help lifting a hand to my eyes, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. Jasper continued quietly. "They were lumped in with Trotsky and accused of conspiring against the party. If they weren't executed or imprisoned in gulags, they lost their jobs and were blacklisted. Because the religion was suspect, the Holocaust was not to be mentioned." He exhaled as the car came to a stop at the gates of the monastery, the engine dying as he pulled the key from the ignition—though neither one of us made a move to leave the car. "It's thought many Jews lived in secrecy to avoid the suspicions of the secret police."

I couldn't imagine. Constantly looking over your shoulder, hiding who you are, unable to confess your true background to anyone—or dare grow close to anyone for fear they might find out. "Immanuel," I whispered, forcing myself to lower my hand. I blinked hard, denying the dampness in my eyes.

"God is with us," Jasper murmured in response, eyes fixed on the monastery before us. After another moment, he turned to me. "Ready?"

I nodded wordlessly, swinging from the car as I managed to swallow the knot of emotion swelling my throat.

Brother Alois was waiting for us, his gaze kind despite the disruption I knew we must present to his routine. "If you'll follow me." He led the way back through the gates, his feet soundless upon the manicured grass that covered the grounds. We followed the walls that surrounded the monastery, a medieval remnant that I briefly thought should have been accompanied by a moat. I quickly saw, though, that the river nearly surrounded the compound, burbling past through strands of trees no more than a dozen yards away, the water murky and sparkling in turn. I was sure that in the fourteenth century the placement of the monastery within the curve of the river had been intentional.

The conversation between Jasper and Brother Alois managed to penetrate my sleep-deprived speculations about moats and medieval fortifications. "Yes, he spoke fluent German. This area has seen much tourism since Communism ended and his fluency was invaluable."

Jasper's next question was hesitant, "He wasn't uncomfortable with…Germans or…Austrians?"

Brother Alois laughed softly. "No more so than any other tourists." He stopped and I realized that we had arrived, the small wooden structure before us the apparent dwelling of the person we'd long sought this past week. It was no bigger than a tool shed. "Immanuel was not comfortable with people." Brother Alois folded his hands, regarding us benignly. "But he would offer his assistance nonetheless regardless of the person's background."

"Of course," Jasper acknowledged, eyes darting over the cell.

Brother Alois looked back towards the gates, squinting in the sunlight. "I must return for None." At my confused expression, he explained, "Mid-afternoon prayer."

"Of course," Jasper repeated, taking his hand. "Thank you for all of your help. We'll see ourselves out."

Brother Alois nodded and turned, following the wall back towards the entrance.

Jasper could not wait for him to turn the corner before grasping the latch of the cell and ducking inside. I attempted to follow but quickly realized there wasn't room for two, bumping up against his back as I craned around his shoulder to see the interior of the bare space. I could make out a cot along one wall, barely big enough for me, much less a grown man. A few rusted gardening tools were propped in the corner: shears, a hoe, a hand rake. I peered up at the ceiling, wondering how he'd managed when it rained or snowed; I could see sun gleaming through the wood slats, lines and specks of golden light. A small smile tilted my lips as I caught the sight of a sprig of rosemary and lavender hanging upside down in the corner, a small pleasure he must have allowed himself.

"No books," Jasper mused sadly as he considered the impossibly small space. "I'm not sure what I expected. A treasure map?" he added wrly.

I bit my lip as I sidled around him. I couldn't resist lowering myself to the cot, trying to imagine Immanuel there. The canvas fabric felt rough beneath my fingers, sagging with my weight.

"What if…" It seemed like such a long shot but if all of our speculations up to this point had been true…

"Yes?" Jasper was clearly curious, his disappointed expression shifting. I could tell he thought we'd reached another dead end, mouth twisting as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"What if they were hiding here?"

"Who?" he asked, then, as he understood, his eyes widened.

"The monks wouldn't turn them away." I met his gaze as I thought out loud. Jasper's eyes were growing impossibly wider, giving me the courage to continue. "It's isolated but close to the border."

"They might have gotten stuck after the borders closed."

"And retreated here," I concluded.

Jasper shook his head. "Not at the monastery itself. If there were women and children…"

"They would have been conspicuous among the monks."

Jasper's eyes were bright as he grabbed my hand and pulled me from the cot. "Screw lunch." I couldn't help laughing at his dismissal; I hadn't felt hungry in days but wouldn't have confessed that to him. "Let's track down some maps and see if we can't find something…an old house or chapel…something."

"Some place they might have hidden from the Nazis."

* * *

černý: def. _black_ pron. _chernee_


	19. The Agony

**Disclaimer**: All Familiar elements belong to S. Meyers. Original content is yours truly.

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**Eighteen**

_The modern concept of the Seven Deadly Sins is linked to the works of the 4th century monk Evagrius Ponticus. Wrath__ is the only sin not necessarily associated with selfishness or self-interest. Dante described vengeance as a "love of justice perverted to revenge and spite."_

The narrow street was empty of tourists or locals given the late hour. Bathed in darkness, glimpses of stone walls or curtained windows could be seen where the halos of street lights reached. The darting figures of moths caught my eye, fluttering on the warm air, irrevocably drawn to the light.

The choked sound of Jasper trying to suppress his laughter broke the silence. My hands fisted in my pockets in response. "Shut up, Jasper!" I erupted before I could stop myself.

"I didn't say anything!" he exclaimed, turning to me with innocent eyes. We had reached the double doors of the building, the light from the lobby dimly glowing beyond the glass panes.

"You didn't have to!"

Jasper had sped from the monastery as if pursued, excitedly speculating about the barns and houses we glimpsed through the trees, the threat of the anonymous tip long forgotten. I even found myself recalling the argument I'd overheard that morning with a start, realizing as I poured over maps and cross-checked the images against satellite photos that I'd been far too absorbed in our endeavor to give Masen, his security guard, or the mysterious redhead a second thought. By the time Jasper and I decided we were far too tired to continue researching, twilight had colored the sky gray-blue.

When we left the local library, Jasper's manila folder was nearly bursting with copies of promising map pages blown up to impossible detail, each one stapled to a print out of the matching satellite image. One site in particular struck us as uncannily suitable, but given the darkness we agreed to wait until morning to investigate.

"Let's just go where we went last night," Jasper had tiredly suggested. I agreed but marveled at his weariness. I was buzzing after our research and wasn't sure I could attribute it to jet lag at this late date.

We had both drawn short at the sight of the Renault outside the restaurant, glancing at one another with trepidation before coming to the silent, mutual agreement to continue inside.

"You're a real man eater, Miss Svan," Jasper wiggled his brows suggestively as we stopped at the reception desk to request one more night at the hotel.

I didn't resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs this time, smiling widely at his muffled grunt. The receptionist looked at us curiously but didn't speak other than to confirm our extended reservations after a few taps on her keyboard.

"You don't have to get violent," Jasper wheezed as we crossed the lobby to the stairs.

"Stop being such a drama queen," I replied, folding my arms over my chest.

"It's not my fault guys fall for you left and right," he smirked, eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Jasper Whitlock!" I huffed. "That's just not true."

"Right," he snorted. "First Father Petr, Erich if you'd given him half a chance, and now this police officer."

My mouth dropped. "That's ridiculous!" Erich had never made any overtures towards me…not like Detective Černý.

Inside the restaurant, the same dark, medieval-style interior seemed brighter and somehow more festive given the number of people crowding around the long tables. German exclamations mixed with English, the majority of the people obviously foreign, perhaps from an organized tour group. Jasper and I glanced at one another again before silently agreeing to continue inside. I momentarily wondered if we'd suffered some sort of mind-meld over the course of all our long hours of travel and research.

Given the crowd, it had taken a moment to spot the detective among the rambunctious backpackers and older, ruddy tourists. His inky hair was unmistakable in the throng, his tall figure bent over a beer and a plate piled with bread dumplings and beef medallions. I wasn't certain I wanted to sit with him; I didn't need a reminder that someone out there was trying to sabotage Jasper and me. However, his head lifted just as I was about to turn to Jasper and suggest we duck into a corner to be served our dinner. His black eyes brightened as they met mine and I knew with a sudden sinking feeling there was no way to avoid his company.

"Dr. Whitlock, Miss Swan!" he exclaimed as we reached his side. There was enough room on the bench for me to squeeze in next to him; a plump woman opposite noticed our arrival and scooted closer to her husband to allow Jasper to sit down.

Lowering himself to the bench, Jasper responded, "Just Jasper, please."

"Of course," the detective replied. "And Bella?" he turned his head, smiling at me.

"Sure," I allowed, my cheeks filling with heat for no reason. I dropped my gaze, unable to meet his dark eyes.

The waitress sidled through the pack of people to take our orders, saving me from my eternal lack of social skills. Jasper heartily ordered beers for both of us before turning to Detective Černý and asking, "Do you have any leads on the situation we discussed earlier?"

The detective frowned, black brows drawing together as he swirled his beer moodily. "It is my wish to inform you differently…but no."

"No worries!" Jasper was in a generous mood given our research that afternoon. Though I still had doubts, it was impossible not to be hopeful. As a publisher's son, I couldn't help supposing that Immanuel/Isaac had grown up surrounded by books; it wasn't a significant leap to believe some of those books might have been rare. Could he have possessed the Burgundian _Golden Legend_? I knew it was still an incredible long shot but the fluttering wings in my stomach felt differently.

Jasper continued, planting his elbows on the stained wood of the table, "I'm sure it's nothing."

Detective Černý nodded, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Perhaps."

"I hope so," I couldn't help interjecting, instinctively smiling as the waitress returned with our beers.

I nearly choked on my initial sip as Detective Černý responded, "If there is any danger, I can protect you."

In the low light of the lobby, Jasper's hazel eyes glinted. "You should be glad he's smitten. Who knows who's after us?"

"That isn't something to joke about, Jasper," I gritted. He was having far too much fun at my expense. I wondered exactly how many beers he'd had.

"Well, he really proved his point, didn't he?"

I could feel my cheeks flaming at the memory of the incident. Inhaling sharply, I fumbled for words before sharply exclaiming, "If you hadn't both gone to the bathroom at the same time, nothing would have happened!"

Jasper and Jakub, as he'd asked me to call him, had dominated the conversation, though the detective kept glancing in my direction as if to check on me. Jasper, in his friendly Southern manner, had asked the detective about his background. "You don't look Czech." I'd found myself intrigued as Černý explained that his father was Roma.

"You would say gypsy," he added. He seemed pleased by the interest in my expression and went on to explain elements of the culture. "Though I was raised almost entirely by my mother and her family, I spent some time with my father growing up."

"Oh, my childhood was the reverse," I smiled. I almost immediately regretted the friendliness; his features lit up at my response, his body inclining towards mine on the bench. I resisted the urge to rudely scoot away, wondering why I was having such a strong, antagonistic response to his obvious interest.

Then, it hit me. He wasn't Edward Masen.

I could feel the blood rushing from my thundering heart, up my throat to my cheeks and ears. I wanted to lift my hands to cool my face but could feel them trembling in my lap. It wasn't as if men had entirely failed to notice me over the course of my time at college and in my career, as isolated and bookish as it had been. Alice seemed to think I attracted the shy type, which accounted for my lack of dating experience. "The guys who like you will never work up the courage to ask you out and you—being you—will never notice their oh-so-subtle overtures."

I'd scoffed at her analysis at the time but later wondered if it was true. I only took notice when men were as overt as Detective Černý—Jakub—was being. And, as Alice had supposed at the time, they were rarely my type. I peered up at the detective, forcing myself to acknowledge that he wasn't unattractive. The slope of his nose and the fine shape of his lips should have been appealing; combined with his height and build, and darkly handsome coloring, I should have been glorying in his attention. But…

"I'll be right back," Jasper spoke up, breaking my introspection, the words distinct over the din of tourists crowding the restaurant.

"Actually, I must excuse myself as well," the detective offered with a regretful smile, placing his napkin next to his plate as he rose to his full, impressive height.

"Okay," I murmured dumbly, watching as the two men retreated to the restroom. I was far too stunned at my sudden realization to reply otherwise, my stomach in heavy, guilty knots.

I had been pushing away my fascination with Edward Masen all this time only to have Jakub Černý make all too clear just how strong my interest was. I was…I swallowed, my gaze growing distant as I contemplated the word. I was more than fascinated with Edward Masen. I was far more than interested in him. I was completely enthralled by him.

I looked down at the pale hands trembling in my lap, trying to deny the epiphany, struggling to push away the truth. But with an undeniably attractive man attempting to flirt with me, I couldn't deny it any longer.

"Hey! You American?" The question was so loud and abrupt that I couldn't help looking up—though I knew it couldn't be aimed at me.

Strangely enough, the young man standing behind Jasper's open seat seemed to be waiting for an answer.

"I'm sorry?" I asked slowly, confused. He looked like a college student, a white baseball cap perched backwards upon his dark hair. His eyes were red with bloodshot veins and I suspected the nearly empty stein of beer in his hand wasn't his first.

"Are. You. American?" he asked equally slowly…though, after hearing me speak, I didn't know how he could be confused.

"Yes," I answered, frowning. He was already taking a seat, as if the fact that we were both American was reason enough to join me. "Do I know you?"

"I'm Riley," he grinned, reaching his free hand over the table. I shook it reluctantly, trying to figure out if I'd seen him before. He gestured over his shoulder towards a table filled with guys who could have been his twin, their baseball caps and logo-covered t-shirts defining them as American. "I'm here with some of my frat brothers." He chortled, as if catching himself. "Here in this restaurant…as well as here in Europe."

"Right…" I drew out the word, still trying to figure out why he was talking to me.

"Are you a student?" he asked abruptly, his bloodshot eyes narrowing with scrutiny.

"No," I admitted, though I could see how he might make the mistake given my jeans and rumpled henley. "I'm a curator, actually."

"A curator! What the hell is that?" He almost looked affronted at my using a word he didn't understand.

I tried not to be defensive or condescending but couldn't help the coldness in my voice. "It means I manage museum collections."

"Like art?" he snorted, then took a swig from his stein as though my response didn't matter. I supposed it didn't.

"Look, Riley," I began. "I'm here with," I paused, considering, "with a friend and I'm sure he'll be back—"

"A friend," he scoffed, slamming his stein down. I couldn't help leaning back, caught off guard by the violent movement. "You mean a boyfriend, right?"

"No, actually—"

"Whatever!" He glowered at me, his soft features twisted with alcohol and entitlement. His voice was a mutter when he spoke next but it was still loud enough for me to hear. "Such a bitch."

"Pardon me?" It was obviously loud enough for Jakub to heave heard as well, his voice low, cold and unmistakably menacing. He stood behind the college student, brow furrowed, his hands fists at his sides.

Riley twisted on the bench, bristling, clearly not accustomed to backing down. "You heard me!"

Jakub moved so suddenly that there was no time for anyone to react. Before I knew what was happening, Riley's face was mashed to the table, Jakub's hands like a vise around his neck, pushing him into the mess of cutlery and dirty dishes. Seated, Riley had no leverage, his arms flailing uselessly at Jakub behind him. The words coming from his mouth were garbled with half of his face smashed flat against the wood but given I was only inches away, I could tell it was swearing.

"Apologize!" Jakub demanded, the determined fury in his voice completely uncompromising.

The entire restaurant had gone quiet but for Riley's strangled cursing. I realized I'd stopped breathing, my hands at my own throat in unconscious sympathy, unable to believe what was happening. Beyond Jakub's shoulder, I could see that the college students at the table Riley had gestured towards earlier were all standing. Fortunately, they weren't moving, perhaps too caught off guard by Jakub's sudden actions…or perhaps intimidated, unlike their friend, by his size. I could only be grateful that, at least for the moment it wasn't going to turn into a giant brawl.

"Fuck you!" Riley managed to spit out. I inhaled as Jakub sharply shifted forward, his hands shoving the student's face improbably further into the stained planks of the table. Riley's white baseball cap had gone askew and was half-laying in Jasper's discarded plate of dumplings.

"I cannot let you go until you apologize," Jakub's voice was almost honeyed and I gazed up at him in wonder, unable to comprehend his contained fury.

"Jakub, it really isn't—" I tried to interject. His eyes were glittering as they swung from Riley's reddened face to my own. He shook his head once and I bit back the words.

It felt like glaciers might have crossed continents but I knew only seconds must have passed. Finally, perhaps knowing he was defeated and that his friends weren't coming to his rescue, the word was spoken. "Sorry." It was choked but intelligible.

Jakub released him as suddenly as he'd attacked, springing back on surprisingly light feet. Riley whipped around and abruptly stood, his hat forgotten on the table. For a moment, it looked as if he might retaliate, but at that point Jasper was standing just behind the detective, his stance wary but ready. Thinking better of it, Riley finally stalked towards his friends, his hands fists, the red marks around his neck visible from across the room.

A waitress scurried towards our table, blue eyes wide and frightened. She spoke in swift Czech that Jakub responded to with easy calm, pulling his badge from his pocket and patting her on the shoulder. I could tell she wanted us to leave and that the detective was trying to placate her. I stood, not wanting any further trouble. Jasper clearly had the same thought and was pulling crowns from his wallet.

Noticing this, Jakub protested in English. "It's fine, I promise."

"No," Jasper responded, his smile slightly strained. He glanced towards the waitress sympathetically before looking back to Jakub. "We really should get back to our hotel. We have a lot of work in the morning."

"If you're sure," Jakub's dark eyes darted towards me, as if I might protest. I resisted the urge to shake my head in wonder at him, uncertain what his response might be at my refusal. I couldn't believe how normally he was acting given everything that had just happened. My heart was still pounding in my chest, adrenaline pulsing through my veins.

"Yes, yes," Jasper took his hand, shaking it with false heartiness. "We'll definitely call if anything comes up."

The affects of the adrenaline hadn't worn off even after walking the winding streets back to the hotel. I knew, given how poorly I'd slept the night before, that I should just go to bed. But I paused at the foot of the stairs in the lobby, watching as Jasper climbed the first few steps. "What a day, huh?" he looked over his shoulder, then stopped as he realized I wasn't following.

"You alright?" I knew my face must be a mask of confusion and shock. I struggled to smile.

"I think too much has happened today. I doubt one year of my life has ever incorporated so much…"

"Adventure?" Jasper asked.

"And insanity," I added, trying to laugh. The sound was strained. "I just need some air."

"You want me to come with?" he asked, descending a step, hazel eyes concerned.

"No," I held up a hand, then shoved it in my pocket as I realized it was shaking. "It won't help anything if we're both sleep deprived." I smiled up at him, the expression more genuine. "Let me just walk off some of this nervous energy. I promise I'll be bright and fresh in the morning."

"Okay," Jasper responded reluctantly. "Wake up call is at seven."

"Okay," I nodded, continuing to smile as he ascended the stairs. Only when he was out of sight did the smile fade.

Outside on the street, I walked blindly, trying to come to grips with the realization I'd had before Jakub had flown off the handle. Could I really have feelings for Edward Masen? How could I be so disloyal? I lowered my head as the guilt washed over me, thinking of everything Dr. Cullen had done for me. And Jasper…

I looked up as I realized I could walk no farther. I'd reached the river, the soft rush of the water drowning out my footsteps. I could see a narrow stone bridge in the distance, crossing to the sparse lights speckling the darkness on the other side. Though my pulse had slowed, my thoughts were still racing. I decided to walk towards it, then return to the hotel.

My pace was more leisurely as I continued over the cobblestones, listening to the faint sound of the river. Was it at all possible Masen felt an equal fascination? I thought of our encounters, that first night in Dresden when he had walked me to my hotel room…and at the Volkspark, chatting over coffee. He had never attempted to get information from me and I had yet to understand what he could achieve by speaking to me in the first place. My cheeks flushed as I remembered the meadow, and my traitorous response even then. How could I have been so blind?

"Shhh!"

I spun on my heel, my reverie broken by the drunken exclamation.

My stomach dropped as I saw six or seven men no more than a dozen yards away. In the darkness they were but silhouettes, features indistinguishable in the absence of light. The only thing I could discern was that they all wore baseball hats…but for one, his dark head bare to the sky. "Uh oh!" The singsong of the voice was somehow ominous, the hairs at my nape standing on end at the playful tone.

Another voice continued, "She's seen us!" Though there was laughter in the words, they were unmistakably menacing.

I turned quickly, hurrying towards the bridge. I could hear their feet now over the rushing of the Vltava, for they were hurrying too, no longer attempting to be quiet, their laughter like a threat in my ears. My gaze darted from left to right but the buildings along the waterfront were closed and dark, the river equally forbidding on the other side.

"She's all yours, Riley!" A voice called behind me, frighteningly close.

"I gotta catch her first!" He didn't bother to hide his anticipation, the gleeful note in his voice bringing sweat to the small of my back, my palms suddenly slick. I knew if I ran, I'd only trip on the blasted cobblestones. But perhaps if I broke open my own face, they wouldn't be inclined to hurt me?

The squeal of tires preceded the flashing headlights that suddenly swung around the nearest corner, a Mercedes speeding towards me. I stopped, wondering for a split second if I was going to be mowed down rather than raped. Then I realized the windows were tinted so dark I couldn't see the driver.

The car screeched and fishtailed around, the passenger side door flying open directly before me. "Get in!" a familiar, furious voice commanded.

Without hesitating, I leapt into the car, not daring to glance over my shoulder. He was peeling away before the door had fully clicked shut, green eyes fixed on the dark road, his body vibrating with barely contained anger. I snatched at the seat belt, my own hysteria nearly spilling over as I cried, "Where have you been?"


	20. The Ecstasy

Thank you so much for all of your reviews. Reviewers will, for now, get a preview for the following chapter as I've managed to get ahead in my writing.

**Disclaimer**: Any familiar elements are not mine.

* * *

**Nineteen**

_Saint Teresa of Avila: Upon whom the Roman sculpture the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa is based. She had visions in which a seraph, or angel appeared to her… "I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron's point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it…"_

His laughter was sharp and exasperated. Amid my panic, confusion, and guilt, I felt a glimmer of relief that even now, I could amuse him.

"Where should I have been?" he asked, managing, as always, to deflect my question. "You now expect me to rescue you?"

"No!" I cried, turning in the seat to face him. "But you have a very strange way of showing up—whether I need rescuing or not!" I was still breathless, my pulse throbbing in my throat, my back damp with sweat. I pushed away the thought of what might have happened had Edward Masen not appeared.

"Do you attract danger?" The question seemed to be to the universe at large but I still took offense, my hands clenching in my lap.

"Right! It's my fault they were stalking me—"

Then I realized he wasn't only talking about this moment. It all came rushing back…the punctured gas tank and being stranded alone in the woods…the false tip to the police that might have landed me in jail…and who knew what more might have occurred without my knowledge? "What do you mean?" I finally breathed.

He was silent, his lips a thin line, his knuckles white around the steering wheel of the car. "What is going on, Edward?" I intended the question to be a demand but it somehow came out quiet and undeniably frightened.

He finally spoke, refusing to pull his eyes from the empty road. "I…can't tell you."

My sharp inhale was involuntary. I knew I shouldn't be hurt that he continued to see me as a rival. But given my own earlier ephipany, I couldn't help the acute feeling of disappointment that, despite everything, he continued to leave me in the dark.

Edward glanced toward me, sensing my reaction. I quickly closed my eyes and dropped my chin, allowing my hair to fall forward and curtain my face. I didn't want him to see any pain in my expression, my breath coming in pants as I processed how foolish I'd been. How could I ever have thought his interest might mirror my own?

I was an idiot to think this had ever been more than a game to him, to have fallen for his trap of distraction and misdirection. Between the strain of searching for the monk and his likely nonexistant book, the danger that was mysteriously accompanying the search, and the confusion of my rival toying with me, it was no wonder I'd become an emotional wreck. That had probably been Edward's intention all along. I could feel tears pricking behind my lids and vowed to dive from the car the moment we reached my hotel.

Then Edward set my hopes soaring again with his next words. "I've been trying…to help." His voice was soft, pleading.

My eyes flew open to find him glancing towards me, his expression earnest. I realized I couldn't breathe, trying with all of my heart not to read too much into the words, into his demeanor, into anything. I didn't want to hope.

I forced my gaze away from his face, desperate for my racing heart to slow, for a quiet moment to get my thoughts straight. As I thought over the past day, I knew I would get no such moment. Taking a deep breath, I finally replied. "I believe you."

It now seemed Edward was holding his breath, his hands twisting around the wheel. I didn't think I'd ever seen him look so shaken, his features pale even in the gloom of the car. I longed to reach toward him and touch the skin where the cuff of his shirt exposed his wrist. His next words dragged me from this fantasy.

"This is so wrong," he groaned.

A sudden feeling of desperation gripped me. Had I misunderstood everything? I felt as if I was on a pendulum, swinging back and forth between wild, ridiculous hope and sinking, terrible despair. The emotion was evident in my voice when I spoke, "What do you mean?"

He paused before finally responding, "I shouldn't even be talking to you." The words were quiet but I felt as if they were daggers, my heart clenching at their meaning. We had pulled up to my hotel, the engine still rumbling. I abandoned the thought of a quick escape, no longer able to walk away.

It was simply too much. With adrenaline, fear, and the tatters of hope still pounding through my veins, I knew I could no longer hold it together. The words burst from my lips without thought, "You're just realizing that now?" As if from a distance, I knew I was approaching hysteria, the words dripping with unfettered fury. "How dare you?"

I had twisted in my seat to face him, the blood pulsing in my cheeks. I could feel my nails digging into my palms, barely able to restrain myself from smacking him. "I didn't seek you out! I didn't follow you! I didn't start this!" I knew I was losing it, angry tears welling in my eyes, blinding me to his unfathomable expression.

It could have been the mob of fraternity brothers nearly attacking me…it could have been the mysterious danger that hung over my head like a scythe…or this breaking point could have been due to the fact that he had probably already found the _Golden Legend_…and I didn't know if I cared anymore. "_You_ sought _me_ out!" I cried.

Edward broke in, his voice equally desperate. "I was tired of trying to stay away from you."

Eyes wide, I sucked in a breath, unable to believe his audacity. I fumbled for the handle and slammed out of the car, unwilling to be his pawn any longer. Jasper and I were so close and he'd now unhinged me to the point that I didn't know if our search even mattered anymore!

The slam of his car door echoed my own, filling me with greater desperation. How could I no longer care whether we found the book? What had he done to me?

"Bella! Wait!"

I sped up the shallow steps to the entrance of the hotel, stumbling as I reached the door. Luckily, I caught myself on the knob and only half fell into the lobby, regaining my balance before I hit the floor. "Please!" he called. "Wait!"

I refused to be swayed by the sincerity in his voice, diving through the lobby, grateful the receptionist wasn't present to bear witness to this insanity. Close, far too close, I heard him swear behind me. "Goddamnit!"

Somewhere, beyond the panic and fury, I felt a flare of satisfaction at his anger. Our interactions had been far too unbalanced and I was glad to have made him as frustrated as he'd made me. Perhaps this was my undoing, glancing over my shoulder to see if he looked as mad as he sounded. My toe caught on the first step of the staircase leading up to the second floor and I was flying forward, my momentum too great to even throw my arms out.

In a corner of my mind, I realized this fall was going to leave terrible bruises.

I jerked through the air, my feet nearly flying from beneath me, as a warm hand wrapped around my forearm. Unfortunately, Edward was still moving forward with the force of his own momentum, his body crashing into mine a split second later. The stairs were flying towards me again before the world twisted, the dim lobby swinging into view as Edward spun to cushion our fall.

I was gasping, my heart in my throat, unable to breathe with the warmth of him all around me, his chest firm against my back. I felt blood rushing to my cheeks as his hands moved over my arms, my shoulders, as if checking for broken bones. "Stop doing this," I heard myself beg, struggling to free myself from his grasp.

His voice was rough against my ear. "I can't."

I slapped at his hands, blinking back tears, writhing, straining to get away from him. I hated him for what I'd become, for the uncertainty he made me feel, for how, even now, I didn't want him to go.

Edward easily caught my hands, his grasp gentle as he shifted his weight, pushing us both away from our sprawl on the stairs. Though he still had a firm grasp on me, I felt myself waver the moment I gained my feet, light-headed and blind with the tears I refused to shed. I instantly felt his arms wrap around me. "No," I murmured against his chest, weakly shoving against his shoulders.

"I'm tired of trying to stay away from you," he quietly repeated, the words a caress, before his lips found mine.

The touch of his mouth dissolved the last tendrils of my resistance, my eyes sinking shut at the sensation. Without thinking, I pressed into him, sighing against his lips as he pulled me even closer…then gasping as he took advantage of the motion, his tongue seeking the wetness of my mouth. I felt him hesitate at my surprise and instantly wrapped my arms around his neck, straining on my tip toes. I couldn't let him stop kissing me.

The groan he uttered against my mouth was a mixture of resignation and exultation, as though he too knew this was wrong…but was unable to do anything other than take pleasure in yielding to what he wanted. Before I knew what was happening, he'd bent, sweeping my legs from beneath me, my body cradled to his chest. His lips were in my hair as he swiftly climbed the stairs, his voice soft as he asked, "Where is your room?"

I could only nod towards the end of the hall, my eyes wide as it began to sink in that I wasn't dreaming. I clung to him as he maneuvered through the door, knowing there must be a point when he would realize what he was doing, that he couldn't take the charade this far. I looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes as he lowered me to the bed, certain I would find hesitation or, worse, rejection there. But I saw only intensity and hunger in his gaze, his mouth falling to mine, his body pressing me into the bed.

"Edward," I whispered as his mouth slid down my throat, his lips soft against my collarbone, his breath warm against my skin. It felt like I'd wanted this forever, my hands fisting in his shirt, dragging at the fabric, pulling it loose from his trousers.

"Bella…" His voice held the same longing and satisfaction, his lips only leaving my skin to pull my shirt over my head before hungrily falling to the swell of my breast. I couldn't help gasping at the sensation, my hands tangling in his hair. I felt too hot, my skin on fire as his hands roved over my ribs, pulling at the cotton of my simple bra, revealing the pale pink of my nipple to the gloom of the hotel room.

"Edward?" His lips closed over the nub, suckling until the flesh was a hardened peak. I arched my back to his touch, only wanting more. "Please…" His mouth crossed the snowy flesh of my breasts, finding the other nipple, his lips tender and firm all at once. Sounds I'd never made before were coming from my mouth, a mixture of pleas and panting breaths, my hands scrambling at his shoulders.

I arched higher, straining to his touch, a faint smile crossing my lips at the groan that issued from his throat in response. I felt him pull away and my eyes flew open, suddenly cold, certain the reality of what he was doing must have sunk in. But he was only leaning back, angrily tugging at his shirt, a button pinging across the room and landing somewhere in the darkness. I reached for him before he'd fully shrugged it away, sighing at the sensation of his skin, dying inside when his mouth closed over mine again.

Edward's kisses were ravishing and insistent, his hands growing more determined as they ranged over my skin, tearing away my bra, jerking at the fly on my jeans. I met his desire as equally as I could, fumbling at the buttons on his pants, raining kisses down his throat. I marveled at the sweet salty taste of him, still not quite able to believe I wasn't dreaming.

Then his hands were in my hair, thumbs against my temples, his naked body pressing into mine. I was breathing hard, my own hands fisting in the rumpled duvet beneath me, forcing myself to accept this was happening-that in the semi-darkness of a hotel room in the southern Czech Republic, Edward Masen was gazing down at me as if I was the only person on earth.

I could feel his hands trembling in my hair against my scalp before he was pushing into me. I sucked in a breath, my eyes instinctively closing until he spoke, his voice hoarse. "Open your eyes." I did as he commanded, meeting his gaze, lips parted at the full, impossible feeling of him. His expression was ever unfathomable but for a slight strain around his eyes.

"Edward." His name was a plea, my hands pressing into his back, pushing him deeper, my hips rising from the bed, wanting him impossibly closer.

"Fuck," he swore, the word harsh. His hands tightened in my hair, his mouth crashing to mine. His hips mimicked the motion, pumping into mine. I was distantly aware of the headboard banging into the wall with the force of his movements. I tried to meet him, pressing my feet into the mattress, then gasping as he hooked an arm under my knee, pushing my leg to my chest. He sank impossibly deeper into me, a cry breaking from my throat at the sensation.

"Oh my God!" I grasped at him, frantic, certain I was going to explode. He was relentless, his hips rhythmic, his breath coming in urgent pants against my cheek. I buried my face in his throat as incredible shudders seized me, my muscles losing all control.

"Bella!" His shudder followed my own, his hips driving into me once, twice, before he was still.

The sudden quiet, but for our panting breaths, was shocking. I imagined this was what a crash landing must feel like—as if I'd been braced for impact and now that the world had righted itself, logic and motor control returned with jarring swiftness. I sucked in a shocked breath, trying to process the fact that the naked body slick with sweat on top of me was Edward Masen.

"Oh my—"

But his mouth was on mine, swallowing the words, his lips gentle but firm. "Don't," he said shortly. I could only stare up at him with wide eyes, the planes of his features shadowed but distinct in the gloom. He pushed away from me, climbing off the bed and confidently heading towards the only other door in the room. I lay still, staring up at the ceiling mutely as I heard the click of the light and running water in the bathroom.

My mind was frozen, unable to question what had just happened—what was still happening—since he had just ordered me not to. But the alternative of enjoying the fact that Edward Masen had just screwed my brains out felt equally impossible. His voice called from the bathroom, "Are you coming?"

I stiffly rose from the bed, trying to connect the dots—how, exactly, we had ended up here—as I crossed to the bathroom. My mind replayed the flight from his car, through the lobby, nearly tripping…and he had rescued me, yet again. He'd probably saved me from breaking something by catching me before I fell into the stairs.

"What are you thinking?" He was standing beneath the spray of the shower, his figure indistinct in the steam that had already built in the small room.

"I…" I crossed my arms over my chest self-consciously, remembering that I was naked. He chuckled at the motion.

"Get in here." I mutely obyed, stepping over the lip of the tub into the steam. I didn't realize how stiff and awkward my stance until he abruptly pulled my close, embracing me beneath the spray of water. "You looked quite perplexed when you walked through the door."

"This isn't perplexing to you?" I mumbled against his chest, unable to meet his eyes.

Edward didn't respond, simply planting a kiss against my temple. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to forget who he was, who I was, and why we both happened to be in Český Krumlov of all places. I let the hot water beat down against my skin, sighing when Edward began soaping my back, my arms, surprising myself by laughing when he soaped my breasts for far longer than necessary.

"I think they're clean," I was blushing but also strangely gratified that he was fixated on any part of me.

"I'm not so sure," he smirked down at me before planting a smacking kiss on my mouth. Even beneath the jets of the shower, his hair was wild, sticking out in all directions. I allowed myself to pat at it, trying to smooth it down, focusing my attention on the darting cowlicks rather than his face…I'd feel too much confusion if I met his gaze.

"Even my mother couldn't get it to behave." My eyes flew to his face at his words, recalling what I'd read online about his parents…and what little he'd told me. But his expression was easy, a smile playing around his lips.

"Maybe with gel…?" I mused. He made a disgusted face that brought a burst of laughter from my throat. I frowned almost instantly after, unable to understand why it was so easy to be with him.

"I wish I knew what you were thinking," he sighed before bending to turn off the water. I couldn't help admiring the muscles visible in his back and the width of his shoulders, all glistening with water. When he straightened, his expression shifted, recognizing for once exactly what was on my mind. I flushed and looked down, embarrassed to be caught so obviously ogling him. Then I shrieked as the world flew from beneath me, his arms sweeping under my legs and shoulders, cradling me to his chest.

"I can walk, you know," I protested.

"I don't want to give you time to think," he replied, before he was lowering me to the bed, his lips insistent upon mine.

* * *

Amazing, detailed shots of Bernini's Ecstasy of Saint Teresa here: http:/sexualityinart(dot)wordpress(dot)com/2009/08/28/berninis-portrayal-of-the-ecstasy-of-saint-theresa/


	21. The Catacomb

**Disclaimer:** Familiar elements belong to S. Meyers. Original aspects are mine.

& yes, reviewers get an excerpt!

* * *

**Twenty**

_Judas Iscariot: __One of the twelve apostles. According to the Gospel of Matthew, Judas approached the high priests before the last supper and agreed to betray Jesus for thirty pieces of silver. A number of 'Judas-pennies,' ancient coins said to be from the original thirty, were treated as relics in the Middle Ages._

Sun streamed through the window panes, bright and unabashed, rousing me from the deepest sleep I'd enjoyed since I arrived.

Since I'd arrived…I'd become so accustomed to waking up disoriented, in an anonymous hotel room in a strange city, that it took me a moment to realize why my disorientation was so much more pronounced. My head whipped around, eyes wide as I registered the crumpled duvet trailing onto the floor, the bra flung over the lamp, the mangled jeans at the foot of the bed. My fingers clawed at the sheet over my chest as I processed my own nudity, my mouth gaping and then closing like a stupefied fish.

Edward Masen. His name was like a prayer and a curse, echoing in my head. I lifted a hand to the wild tangles around my head. I never went to bed with wet hair, the results leaving me with a mane that resembled something out of a horror show…but that had clearly been the last thing on my mind last night. My cheeks burned hot as I struggled out of the bed, still grasping at the sheet, trying to comprehend exactly what I'd done…with Edward.

Then I saw the manila folder sitting on the small desk in the corner.

I hurried over to it, brows drawn together, unable to understand how Jasper's folder could have ended up in my room. Jasper's looping writing scrawled over a slip of hotel stationary, neatly paper clipped to the stack of notes, maps, and copies. "Maybe this will put you to bed if your walk doesn't suffice." I read the words three times before strangling on a sound that emerged from my throat as a sob and a gasp. A sick feeling twisted through my stomach as I fumbled for it, flipping the folder open to that first promising map, my heart pounding like a jackhammer in my chest.

It was gone. Another sobbing gasp. It couldn't be. It simply couldn't be. I was barely aware of my own movements, flinging myself towards the twisted jeans, jerking them over my legs as I rammed my glasses onto my face. It couldn't be. I grasped desperately at excuses…perhaps Jasper had kept the copy of that particular location in his own room, wanting to peruse the map at leisure. I tugged my henley over my head, thrusting a hand through the snarls of my hair with exasperation and defeat as I hurtled into the hall. I twisted the knob to Jasper's room, gasping in relief that it was unlocked…while somehow sparing a thought for how lacking in personal safety the man seemed to be. It might have seemed comical that Jasper didn't even stir when I burst into his room, but I couldn't laugh under the circumstances. I snatched the keys from his desk and flew back into the corridor without shutting the door behind me.

I nearly fell down the stairs, unaware I was murmuring under my breath. A prayer. A mantra. "It can't be. It can't be. It can't be."

I briefly wondered if Jasper's car would start, if a suspiciously absent spark plug or gas tank full of sugar would keep the engine from turning over. The burst of relief I felt when it rumbled to life was desperate at best. I had no idea when Edward had ducked out of my hotel room, no idea how much of a head start he might have. "No, no, no," I pleaded to myself, to the sky, to whoever might be listening to the frantic gasping of a curator with the worst judgment in the world.

I wheeled out of town, finding the highway easily given how many times Jasper had driven to and from the monastery only the day before. The clear blue sky, the sun golden and glowing above, seemed to mock me, unmoved by my fear, my desperation, my pleas. "No, no, no, it can't be!" I slammed my palm into the steering wheel, hoping the pain would wake me up from this nightmare.

I sped through the last village before Zlatá Koruna far too quickly, a cat yowling as it darted out of my path. I followed the narrow road that continued pass the village and up to the monastery, knowing I would have gone too far if I reached its walls. My eyes darted back and forth, suddenly scared I'd be unable to discern the little gravel road amidst the copses of trees, thick and lush with spring growth. Then I saw it. I wrenched the wheel to the left, the rear of the car fishtailing…as Edward's car had last night, when he rescued me.

I choked on another sob, but it was a cry of desperation and fear rather than sadness, my eyes dry behind my glasses. I could no longer pray, if that's what I'd been doing, my throat a desert, my heart ricocheting against my ribs.

I thought I would see the chapel from the road but it was the Mercedes on the shoulder that indicated all too clearly where I should pull over.

I wanted to scream but no sound would come from my mouth, barely remembering to throw the Volkswagen into park before I hurled myself out of the car and into the woods. Leaves crunched beneath my rushing feet for there was no path, the grounds of the camp neglected in the off season.

Through a patch of birches, I saw the chapel. I could feel my face twisting with sorrow as I realized Jasper and I had guessed correctly. Kemp U Kučerů was near enough to the monastery that it could be quickly reached on foot by anyone in decent health. As a vacation retreat, it would have been largely abandoned during the war, the cabins and outbuildings empty and attracting no notice. Of course, it was unlikely anything could have been hidden in the cabins long term given they were regularly occupied in the summer. No, the only place where a refugee might be able to conceal something for years—in a country where religion was looked upon with suspicion and atheism was the largest growing belief system—was the camp's chapel.

As I drew closer to the chapel, a cry of despair broke loose from my chest as I saw the silver coins hammered around the door. The metal dully shined against the simple wood beams, the only sign of rust the single dot of red where the nails had pierced the silver. I couldn't take the time to examine them closely, pushing through the heavy door and into the gloomy interior.

I nearly stumbled into the last row of pews given it was dark as twilight inside; the lead-paned windows were so caked with dust that almost no light shined through. I couldn't wait for my pupils to dilate, fumbling towards the altar, gaze darting around the modest house of worship, looking for any sign of Edward or Emmett.

As my eyes adjusted, I saw that the altar was a mess of broken furniture, jagged wood and debris scattered at the front of the small space. I hurried forward, my pupils absorbing enough light to make out that the table legs and rotting beams were as dusty as everything else, undisturbed by any recent hands.

My searching gaze found the door to the left of the altar almost at the same moment that my feet moved towards the dark opening. I gasped as I realized I was descending rather than moving forward—I had assumed the door led to a sacristy but the cold, dank air and crushing darkness indicated otherwise. What little light had struggled through the dirty windows in the chapel was soon completely gone, the darkness in the narrow stairwell muffled and close.

The faint scent of death and earth lingered in the still air. If I had been thinking clearly, I would have kicked myself for not bringing a flash light. Jasper and I had speculated that a catacomb or cellar would have presented the perfect place to hide, but our theories had been the last thing on my mind when I'd rushed from the hotel. As it was, I could barely breathe much less think, my eyes wide, chest heaving as I struggled for air.

The sharp click was loud in the soundless crypt, utterly distinct from the harsh pant of my breathing…and it in no way resembled the faint scratching noises I'd heard as I rushed into the darkness, doubtlessly rats who could not be disturbed by the bones and dirt surrounding them. A light flickered into life, accompanying the click. Of course _he_ had remembered a flashlight.

Mercifully, it was pointed at the ground, allowing my straining pupils to contract. Reflexively, I lifted a needless hand to my eyes, not wanting to see him here, not wanting his presence to be real. His words echoed in my head. _All's fair in love and war_. I had scoffed when he said it but now I felt nothing but despair.

He had used me. I was only a means to an end…perhaps amusing, but nothing more. At best, I had been a distraction. At worst, I was a complete fool. A dry sob caught in my throat as I thought of the maps on the desk in my hotel room, the missing slip of paper that indicated this very place.

As the glowing light swung up through the darkness, illuminating the figure standing no more than ten feet away, I realized the last thing on my mind was the priceless book I'd been sent here to find.

It took no more than a single second, a single thud of my heart, for me to take in his figure in the cone of illumination provided by the flash light. A stack of books rested on a dusty table at his side, a smirk curling his lips as he regarded me. Only one thing could signfiy that knowing expression; I didn't need to examine the titles to know he'd found what we'd both been seeking.

I couldn't bear it, spinning on my heel and racing up the steps. I ran faster than I'd ever before dared, propelled by a force greater than any I'd ever experienced: the desperate need to escape my complete humiliation.

Dimly, I could hear my own name echoing behind me but I didn't stop, skidding down the center aisle of the chapel, the room seemingly bright after the unrelieved pitch black of the catacomb. I flung myself through the door, gasping for breath as I sprinted towards the Volkswagen. As I rounded the car, I felt a stab of relief that I'd left the keys in the ignition in my panic. I was in the drivers seat when he burst from the chapel, his figure but a flit of movement in my periperhal vision that I refused to look towards. I cranked the wheel at the same moment that the engine roared to life, stomping on the gas as I spun away from the little dirt road and the scene of my complete annhilation.

I remembered nothing of the drive back to Český Krumlov. My mind only seemed to regain its bearings when I found Jasper in the lobby of the hotel, his hair wild, his shirt unevenly buttoned. Confused anger clouded his expression. "What the hell is going? Why was the door of my room open? Where is my car?"

"I have to go!" My voice was shrill, nearly shouting as I rushed past him and towards the staircase. I took the steps two at a time, breathless as I swung into my room and grabbed my backpack. I didn't even realize he'd followed me, wildly stuffing clothes into the bag, uncaring how crazy I appeared.

"Where were you? What's going on?" Concern began to replace frustration as Jasper absorbed how hysterical I was.

I stopped in the middle of shoving my toothbrush into one of the outer pockets, looking up to meet Jasper's hazel eyes. "He got the book. He got the _Golden Legend_."

"Wait, what?"

"He got the book, Jasper. He got the fucking book!" I was losing it, yanking at the zipper on my backpack, unable, unwilling to explain any further. "I have to get out of here. I have to get back to Seattle."

Jasper broke in, trying to slow me down. "Wait, Bella. Please. Let me pack." I raised my head, eyes panicked, feeling cornered. "Please," he repeated. "Let me pack and I'll drive us back to Prague."

I felt as if I was waiting for my execution while he retreated to his room to fetch his own bags. I tried to sit on the bed then hopped up as if it was on fire, my cheeks flaming as I remembered what I'd done on it the night before. Though it was probably no more than five minutes, it felt like an eternity had passed before Jasper reappeared, his expression grim.

The receptionist regarded us dubiously as we checked out but I couldn't care, hurrying down the shallow steps one last time to Jasper's car.

It wasn't until we were on the highway that he spoke again, his voice quiet. "Was he at the chapel at Kemp U Kučerů?" I nodded tersely, unable to meet his gaze, watching the idyllic countryside and the passenger side mirror at the same time. I'd been desperate to get away because I was half-convinced Edward might follow…but why should he? He'd reached his objective—I wasn't necessary any longer.

"How did you know he would be there?"

I bit my lip, considering the green fields beyond the windows, the passing trucks with their Mercedes logos. "I had a hunch."

Jasper laughed bitterly. "He beat us by a matter of hours…minutes even," he glanced at me, trying to confirm that fact.

I closed my eyes, my lip raw beneath my teeth. "I don't want to talk about it," I finally begged, the exhaustion and hysteria in my voice so near the surface that Jasper did as I asked.

The remainder of the three hour drive passed in a heavy silence that I refused to break. When we reached my hotel, I spoke flatly. "I can get a cab to the airport."

"Bella, let me—"

"No. Thanks." I paused after climbing out of the car before finally bending down to meet his bewildered, frustrated gaze. "Look. I'll write when I get back. I'll try…I'll try to explain everything." Jasper nodded once and I felt anguish clench my throat as his expression shifted from confused to concerned—concerned for me.

I slammed the car door, hurrying towards the entrance of the hotel. I choked back a sob, realizing I was treating the man who'd come to feel like my brother no better than a servant. Jasper deserved better than this…but he'd deserved better all along. Why hadn't I told him the first night Masen approached me? Or after it had become clear that he was somehow tracking us before the second trip to Kutná Hora? I had betrayed Jasper's trust as a partner and my guilt wouldn't allow me to be in his presence any longer.

Soon, I would figure out how to apologize to him. For now, though, I needed to get my shit together so I could leave this whole fiasco behind.

It took only minutes to pack up the remainder of my things and check out, the receptionist dialing a taxi for me. I couldn't help blinking back tears as the burly driver sped across the Vltava, thinking of that first cab ride into the city and my eagerness to beat Masen at his own game. I couldn't believe how naïve I'd been, so foolish to think I was anything but entirely out of my element. If I could have kicked myself, I would have. How could I not have seen that first night in Dresden that it was all a ploy? I wondered if the punctured gas tank had been engineered by him, maneuvering me to be rescued so I'd come to trust him…to rely on him.

I buried my face in my hands, blinking back tears, knowing I needed to hold it together at least until I got back to Seattle. Taking a deep breath, I dragged my hands away, a mixture of relief and dread knotting in my stomach as the airport came into view. What would I tell Dr. Cullen? How could I ever hold my head up again in his presence?

I pushed those thoughts away, telling myself I could figure that out in Seattle. I could be sad, and angry, and humiliated and guilty—and figure out how to apologize to Jasper when I got back home. As it was, I had no idea whether I'd be able to change my ticket so I could depart early. I only knew there was no way in hell I'd stay another minute longer in Prague than I had to.


	22. Praha Dvě

**Disclaimer:** Familiar elements are not mine. Reviewers get a teaser.

* * *

**Twenty-One**

_Proud: From__ late Old English '__prut__,' probably from Old French '__prud,' to be__ brave, valiant (11th century). From the Late Latin term __prodis__ 'useful.' To mean having a high opinion of oneself may reflect the Anglo-Saxons' opinion of the Norman knights who called themselves 'preux,' or proud. In almost every list pride__, or __hubris__, is considered the original and most serious of the seven deadly sins, and indeed the ultimate source from which the others arise._

The fluorescent light flickered every twenty-six seconds, a barely perceptible flash that I'd first attributed to my own exhaustion. Perhaps I was microsleeping, a feasible possibility given how poorly I'd slept since the beginning of this endeavor. Or perhaps I was simply losing my mind.

I counted the seconds between flickers to assure myself I wasn't crazy, as well as from sheer boredom. It had been four hours since I'd arrived at Ruzyně International and handed over my credit card to the pert woman behind the Delta counter. When I'd learned that the first seat she could find was on a flight that didn't leave for nine hours, I'd sagged, my eyes widening with panic at the thought of being in this city, this country, any longer than necessary. Sensing my desperation, she'd clicked away at her keyboard. "I can offer you a one way ticket to Frankfurt that departs in ninety minutes. There are more frequent flights from there to London and on to Seattle." She quoted a price that, in my mental state, I almost considered.

"I could tap into my savings," I murmured, chewing my lip. Though Dr. Cullen had always reimbursed me for any trips I'd taken on his behalf, I knew I'd prefer to have my feet held to hot coals rather than accept any money from him for this debacle. "No, no," Somehow, the logical part of me that had gone missing these past few days prevailed. "I'll wait for the ten o'clock departure." It would be much cheaper to simply change my flight rather than buy an entirely new ticket.

"Very well!" She smiled brightly, tapping at the keyboard and quickly producing an itinerary and boarding pass. "The gate will not be announced until eight but you are welcome to wait in the terminal!"

I couldn't fake a smile at her perky delivery, turning away from the counter with my rolling suitcase, my messenger bag stuffed with hastily packed, unfolded clothes, and an appearance that I knew must look half-crazed. I ducked into a bathroom and quickly forced my eyes away from the pale reflection in the mirrors. My hair was a cloud around my head, purple crescents visible beneath my eyes, my clothes rumpled and creased from having sat in a heap on the floor of my hotel room in Český Krumlov. After using the toilet and washing my hands with gaze downcast, I ducked from the tiled room quickly, wanting no reminders of what had occurred that morning.

The terminal provided little relief, the few overhead televisions tuned to either Česká Televize or a soccer match. I slumped into an uncomfortable chair and leaned my head back, praying for the minutes to somehow pass faster. As the sense of panic that had stayed with me from the moment I'd woken up that morning began to recede, a deep-seated exhaustion sank into my muscles, seeming to grip my very bones. Despite this well-earned weariness, I found that whenever I closed my eyes, all I could see were glimpses of Edward…the green of his eyes…the half-curl of his smile…the wild mess of his hair…he filled my mind, blotting out everything.

I numbly pushed away thoughts of him, of my own idiocy, of my complete and utter failure—I would deal with it when I got home. I forced myself to focus on the news program I couldn't understand, on the flicker of the fluorescent lights, on the businessman laughing into his cell phone on the far side of the lounge, on anything but the reason I happened to be in the Czech Republic in the first place.

I knew I wasn't very successful in this attempt at distracting myself for the two police officers caught my attention the moment they walked into the terminal. I had been trying to decipher what exactly the two Czech news anchors were discussing, speculating that the woman was convincing the man that she was actually a spy obsessed with weather reports, creating a whole dialogue in my head. But the moment the two men in gray trousers and black coats entered the hangar-like space, my eyes were riveted.

I was somehow unsurprised when, after scanning the room, they began to approach me. I wondered if this was some last minute bullshit Masen was pulling; perhaps he'd been the one to plant the false tip, despite Jasper and Jakub's doubts. I wouldn't put anything past him at this point.

"You are Bella Svan?" The solemnity of their expressions was confusing, as if they intended to deliver bad news rather than arrest me.

I stood. "Yes?"

"You work with Professor Whitlock?"

"I do." My brow furrowed with confusion, wondering exactly what this was about.

"Can you come with us?" The officer looked around the terminal then at my bags, perhaps worried my imminent departure would not make that possible.

"What is this about?" I wanted answers before I went anywhere. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to make it as clear as possible that I wouldn't budge if I didn't get some information.

The officer who appeared to be the superior glanced towards his colleague warily before turning back to me. It was apparent he knew I was serious. He spoke slowly, "Professor Whitlock is at hospital."

"What?" We had begun to draw attention but I didn't care, my eyes wide behind my glasses. I quickly turned, snatching at my bags. "In the hospital? Why?"

"You can come?"

"Of course!"

I hurried after the officers, exiting the terminal without a backward glance, my heart in my throat. Outside, the cruiser was parked directly in front of the entrance, a third officer fixed behind the wheel. One of the uniformed men held the back door open for me while the other tossed my suitcase into the trunk.

The driver shifted into gear before we were all buckled in, speeding back towards the highway and the city I'd been trying to leave behind four hours before. "Do you know this woman?" The officer riding in the front passenger seat had sifted through a folder before finding the photograph he was now handing back to me.

I gasped involuntarily. "Oh my God."

"You know this woman?"

"Yes. No." I lifted a hand to my mouth, staring down at the glossy image. It appeared to be a headshot for identification, the plain background failing to provide any context. But I would recognize those red curls anywhere, bright green eyes gazing back at me. "I saw her twice…in several of the places where Dr. Whitlock and I were doing our research." I forced my eyes away from her smile, slightly hypnotized by her sweet gaze. "Who is she? What happened?"

"It is Viktoriya Jamilova. She is graduate student at Univerzita Karlova."

"A graduate student?" I could only guess that she must be a part of Masen's research team. But then why would she have been arguing with Emmett?

"Ano," the officer replied. "I mean, yes."

"But what about Jasper? Professor Whitlock?"

The officer in the front seat appeared to be struggling for the correct words. "She…she attack."

"But why?" I cried, unable to understand.

The officer simply gazed over the seat at me, clearly hoping I knew the answer to that question.

My bottom lip was raw by the time we arrived at the hospital, my feet impatiently jittering up and down as the cruiser drew into a parking spot. We were soon hurrying through the lobby, the stark white corridors frightening and forboding knowing that Jasper was inside, hurt somehow. The officers guided me to an elevator; I almost snorted with laughter as I realized it was the first one I'd encountered that was comparable in size to those in the States. I stifled the sound, knowing it would only earn me bemused looks from the three officers, and perhaps suspicion as well.

All amusement fell away when the doors slid open and I saw Rozalina, bent at the waist in a plastic hospital chair, her hands covering her face as she openly wept. I flew from the elevator before the doors were fully open, unable to wait for the officers. "What happened?"

I dropped to my knees in front of her, taking her hands. It was then that I saw the blood staining her yellow shirt and jeans, my fingers clenching in reflexive shock over her own. "That bitch!" Rozalina lifted her head. Even in angry sobs, her beauty was apparent, the blue of her eyes shining with unshed tears, her cheeks flushed and damp. "I can't believe she fucking stabbed Jasper!"

"But why?" It didn't occur to me to be surprised that Rozalina was allowing me to rub her hands, both of us too shocked to do anything other than comfort and vent.

"Miss Svan?" One of the officers was at my side, offering his hand. Another had appeared with tissues and had bent to Rozalina, consoling. She spoke quickly in Czech, gesturing wildly, tendrils of blond hair wisping about her face. I'd never seen her look so undone and couldn't pull my eyes from the red brown stains on her shirt and jeans.

"He is awake. Maybe not for long," the officer explained, tugging me towards the nearest door; I hoped the brass plaque fixed at eye-level wasn't the Czech translation of 'intensive care unit.'

I braced myself for whatever might be waiting, briefly closing my eyes before I stepped inside.

"Oh, Jasper." My voice was breathless, unprepared for the sight of him slumped in the narrow hospital bed. Luckily, he was too groggy to be affected by my shock, a lopsided smile crossing his face before he grimaced, in obvious pain. I hurried to his bedside, tears filling my eyes, blindly reaching for his hand. "Jasper, I'm so sorry."

"Why should you be, Miss Svan?" His hand tightened around my own. Butterfly bandages criss-crossed the skin there, trails of them marching up both of his forearms. Larger bandages that obviously covered wounds requiring stitches were bright white against the tan of his throat and the inner curve of his elbow. Seeing my gaze trained on these gauze wraps, he slurred, "She knicked an artery there," nodding at his elbow.

"Jasper!" I closed my eyes tightly, guilt crashing over me. "But why?" I finally whispered.

He swallowed, the pain killers clearly kicking in as his eyes struggled to focus. "Viktoriya…she was at the lecture…that night."

"The night the old man approached you?" He nodded. My voice was tight and angry. "She must have told Masen."

"Yeah," Jasper nodded, then winced. I unconsciously winced in sympathy, wanting to lay a hand on his curly head. "Never thought…" he murmured, the words trailing away. More butterfly bandages adorned his cheekbone, yet others obscuring his left eyebrow.

"Were they working together?" I didn't know why I asked. They must have been.

"I don't…know," his voice was sleepy, his lips barely moving.

"Jasper," I bit back a sob. "I'm so sorry."

He shook his head, his eyes drifting shut. "Not…your…fault." But I knew it was.

Several minutes passed but he didn't open his eyes, and the heart monitor appeared to be steadily beeping. I finally retreated from the small white room only to find the corridor empty, Rozalina and the police officers having disappeared. I nervously wrung my hands, trying to think what to do next, when the elevator doors at the end of the corridor slid open, revealing Jakub Černý.

"Jakub!" I cried, inordinately relieved to see a familiar face. I stepped towards him but his long stride had already brought him to my side, his olive trench coat flapping open with how quickly he crossed to me.

"Is he resting?" His voice was solicitous, dark eyes concerned.

I nodded blindly, blinking back tears. "What happened?" I couldn't help exclaiming, frustrated to find I was still as ignorant as before of what exactly had occurred. "Rozalina was hysterical and Jasper was too drugged—I don't understand…" I brushed angrily at the tears.

I felt his hand on my shoulder, guiding me towards the hard chair Rozalina had occupied earlier. A fresh bout of tears overtook me as I recalled the blood stains on her clothes, feeling utterly helpless and at fault for what had happened. When I managed to recover myself, I saw Jakub was squatting at my side, his elbows resting on his knees. Given his height, his gaze was still level with my own, black eyes filled with a surprising level of sadness.

A sudden thought struck me. "Wait," I croaked, my voice hoarse with tears. "Why are you here? Aren't you supposed to be investigating the false tip?" Jakub's gaze was steady, pushing me towards the truth I already knew. "This is your case…because Viktoriya made the false tip." He nodded. "But why?" I wailed.

"I have taken her statement but she is…unstable." He shook his head. "She said she went to Dr. Whitlock's office—at the university."

"She's a student there," I added, confirming one of the few facts I knew.

Jakub nodded again. "Viktoriya is on exchange from Ukraine," he added. I nodded but frowned, still not understanding why this had happened. Edward had gotten the book, even if Viktoriya's attempts at sabotage hadn't worked. What reason could she have to attack Jasper? "She asked Dr. Whitlock where you were."

"Me?" I squeaked, caught off guard. But wasn't this about the book?

Jakub nodded, patting my shoulder as he sensed my alarm. "When he told her you had—" Jakub shifted, reaching into his pocket for his notepad. "He told her you had 'already left the country.' Then Viktoriya attacked." I shook my head, my hand at my mouth, still unable to believe this was real. "He was very surprised."

"I bet," I whispered in response to the understatement.

Jakub held up his hands, "Defense wounds," he explained. I nodded, thinking of all the bandages on Jasper's hands and arms. Yet she'd still managed to cut his face. I shivered, thinking of the deeper gashes at his throat and elbow. "He hit her with—it was a bottle."

"A bottle?"

"Of bourbon," he added. I couldn't help a strangled laugh that was absent of all humor. I could easily imagine Jasper, bewildered and worried after dropping me off, tucking in with a glass of whiskey…only to find a strange grad student he barely knew in his office asking him random questions about me…before flying at him with a knife. "Rozalina was in class."

"So she timed it," I whispered. Jakub nodded.

"Rozalina called emergency services when she found him—she tried to stop the bleeding." I nodded, blinking back tears again. "Viktoriya was unconscious at the scene." He paused, considering me warily before confessing, "She is inpatient here," he tilted his eyes towards the ceiling. "Two floors above."

I paled, my hands shaking. "I just don't understand…" Why would my absence enrage her to the point that she would attack Jasper?

"She…" Jakub tapped his temple, indicating her mental instability. "She says terrible things about you," he finally offered, his voice quiet.

"But I don't even know her!" I protested, eyes wide.

Jakub shook his head. "She will be deported, certainly. Her mental state…maybe institution, maybe prison." He shrugged his shoulders. "And she confessed regarding the false tip," Jakub finished.

"Jesus," I couldn't help exhaling. Didn't she know that we hadn't found the book? And why would her anger be directed at me? None of this made sense.

I reluctantly rose from the chair, taking several deep breaths as I tried to collect myself. Jakub rose as well, towering above me. "I need to take care of some things," I explained, trying to run a hand through the tangle of my hair. Jakub nodded, patting my shoulder again. I offered a quavering smile before setting out for the elevator. I had spied a bank of phones in the lobby when I first entered the building and clearly there was no way I was going to make the ten o'clock flight. I pushed away the thought of Viktoriya's presence in this same building, still not fully grasping that all of this was real…and that Edward Masen was no longer around to rescue me.

My gaze was downcast, mentally cataloging the calls I needed to make…Delta to change the flight again…the hotel to book a room...Alice for a pick up…

"Bella."

The doors of the elevator slid shut behind Edward Masen. I reared back into the corner of the cab, a shocked gasp caught in my throat. Blood immediately flooded my cheeks as memories of that night rushed back…his body above mine, the taste of his lips, the spray of the shower as his hands moved over my skin. The desire to slap him fought with the fear that if I touched him, I would be unable to control what happened between us. No one had ever affected me as he did…and as much as I wanted to tell myself he'd hypnotized me, that he'd taken away my willpower somehow—I knew that what had happened the night before, impulsive as it was, had been my decision to make.

My breath was coming in angry pants as I struggled to tear my gaze from his face. He looked infuriatingly impeccable, his lithe figure garbed in a perfectly tailored black suit, the tie around his throat knotted and tight, his hair as messy as ever.

"I knew you wouldn't talk to me," he spoke quietly with a strange urgency I didn't understand.

"Unless you cornered me?" Speaking brought tears to my eyes but I refused to let them fall, refused to let him know how much he'd gotten to me.

"Let me explain." I noticed he didn't say 'please,' demanding and audacious as always.

"What is there to explain? That one of your lackey's lost it?" My sense of fury and helplessness grew, thinking of Jasper covered in bandages in the hospital room.

"She wasn't working for me," his voice was sincere, his green eyes intent.

"Then why would she turn up in Dresden? And Český Krumlov?" I demanded.

"She was trying to…help me."

"Oh, like you helped me!" I scoffed bitterly. I wanted to reach for the buttons to the lower floors but he was standing in front of them, deliberately blocking them. The thought of pushing him aside filled me with fear, that in touching him I'd lose all control, my hands shaking at my sides. "Why would she try to help you? That makes no sense!"

Edward's features twisted, his brow furrowing and lips thinning as if wrestling with some internal question. When he finally spoke, his shoulders dropped by the slightest fraction, as if resigning himself to whatever outcome resulted from revealing the truth. "We slept together at a conference."

My lungs suddenly failed, my eyes flaring wide. Edward's gaze had dropped to the scratched tile of the elevator's floor, unable to look at me as he continued, "She contacted me after she overheard the conversation between Jasper and Pavel."

"Who?" I whispered, confused.

His gaze darted up, green eyes stricken as he explained, "The old man who told Jasper about Immanuel's last words. My team tracked him down in Zátiší." He took a breath, his shoulders straightening…as if he'd physically unburdened himself in finally telling me the truth. His expression shifted, gaze intent, as if willing me to understand. "Viktoriya kept trying to involve herself but I repeatedly told her it wasn't necessary."

I couldn't help believing him, some of the puzzle pieces finally falling together. But my anger was beginning to feel like lead in my stomach, growing heavier and more forceful with each word. I asked the first question that came to my mind, still trying to grasp the fact that I'd been followed and sabotaged by one of Edward Masen's former flames. "Did you know she was unstable? That she was capable of this?"

Edward shook his head regretfully. "I didn't know how seriously."

"But you knew what she was doing, following us around, planting false tips with the police!" My chest was rising and falling rapidly, unable to catch my breath, my hands shaking so hard that I clenched them into fists and shoved them into the small of my back, uncertain whether I could keep myself from attacking him. I could have laughed for the fact that I almost identified with Viktoriya's behavior.

Edward didn't answer, his green eyes wide as he watched me try to control myself. "Why didn't you tell me?" I knew I was rapidly approaching hysteria but couldn't contain the fury, the pain in my voice. He remained silent and pale, only adding to my frustration; I thought I might explode with rage. "You stole the map from my room!"

Edward's gaze dropped, his body shockingly still. I swore the sound of my pounding heart filled the elevator, waiting for him to respond, to explain himself—to somehow justify what he'd done. "My team had been there two days before."

My mouth dropped open in shock. I didn't bother to restrain myself from shouting, "If you knew where it was, why didn't you admit it?" I was incandescent with rage, flinging my hands in the air, my chest heaving.

I could barely hear him above the rapid thud of my heart, watching with growing anger as he struggled for the words. "Then…you—you would have gone home."

"So this was all just a game?" I gestured wildly, my cheeks burning with blood. "Jerking my chain? See how clever I am? See if me and the Scooby gang can figure it out?" He was white, unresponding. "Then your ex goes and muddies the water—"

Edward spoke sharply, interjecting, "She's not my ex."

"Excuse me," I replied with mock formality. "Your one night stand."

His lips were thin but he didn't deny it.

"Did it just up the stakes? Make the game a little more exciting? If you were really worried about my safety, you could have told me you'd found the book so I could have tucked my tail between my legs, gone home and been entirely outside of Viktoriya's reach!"

Edward sounded almost helpless when he spoke but I was beyond caring. "I couldn't let you leave."

"Why?" I cried, furious, heartbroken.

"I just…couldn't." I was unsurprised that he still couldn't…wouldn't explain himself. I sucked in a breath, brushing past him to push the button to open the elevator doors.

"Some things are more important than your personal fulfillment, Edward."

I would take the goddamn stairs.


	23. Seattle

**Disclaimer**: Characters are S. Meyers. Plot is mine. Reviewers should get a preview (I got behind towards the end but think I got to 4/5 of you...)

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Twenty-two**

…_For sure man was formed out of earth, conceived in guilt, born to punishment…He was conceived from the itch of the flesh, in the heat of passion and the stench of lust, and worse yet, with the stain of sin. He was born to toil, dread, and trouble; and more wretched still, was born only to die. He commits depraved acts by which he offends God, his neighbor, and himself, shameful acts by which he defiles his name, his person, and his conscience; and vain acts by which he ignores all things important, useful, and necessary._

_Pope Innocent III, On the Misery of the Human Condition_

I was so certain I had turned to stone, it would not have surprised me if Alice had reared away from me after hugging me at the airport. But I was still soft and human despite the numb stillness that had possessed me over the course of the flight to Seattle, and Alice sank into me as if she thought she would never see me again.

"Bella!" she exclaimed, "What happened? I got a call from Interpol wanting to verify your employment—and Dr. Cullen hadn't heard from you at all—"

"The time difference," I dumbly explained, meeting her frantic gaze. Her expressive features were lined with worry, blue eyes wide and questioning. "And someone was trying to sabotage us," I added as an afterthought.

"What? !" Her Mississippi accent twanged as anger took hold. "When I made those spy versus spy comments, I didn't think you were in any real danger!"

"I wasn't, Alice," I tiredly lied, hitching my messenger bag up my shoulder and nodding towards the baggage claim. "Let's just go home."

Alice bit her lip, seeming to fully take in my numb exhaustion, finely arched brows lowering with curiosity and concern. Though I knew she wasn't satisfied, she turned and led the way towards the baggage claim.

I thought back over the past twenty-four hours, finally boarding a flight after seeing Jasper safely discharged from the hospital two days after his admission. Jakub had rarely left my side as I camped out at the hospital; though I didn't want to encourage his attention, his presence had made me feel more safe while Viktoriya was still inpatient. In the hours when Jasper was in a drug induced fog, I'd tried to garner more information from the detective about her motives.

Jakub had helpfully pulled out his notepad, flipping through the pages and reading her statements back to me. One in particular had struck me, my skin suddenly going clammy and cold despite the sun outside the hospital windows. "She say you take Edward away, so she take Professor Whitlock." Jakub had paused, sensing my reaction. "Does she refer to Edward Masen?"

I'd nodded, my cheeks on fire. Jakub had considered me for a moment before lowering his head, continuing to read his notes.

"If she had found this," he pointed at the page, to a word he'd written phonetically, "Edward would return to her." Jakub had handed me the pad. "Do you understand this word?"

I'd peered at his small, tight writing, my eyes going wide as I realized what 'oría leženda' meant.

"_Aurea Legenda_," I'd whispered.

"Do you know…why she is obsessed with him?" Jakub had asked.

"I—I don't know," I had replied, pretending ignorance of whatever had occurred between the poor, crazy student and Edward. After all, I only knew Edward's side—and given how he'd manipulated me, I couldn't imagine what Viktoriya's version of events might be.

Regardless, my guilt that Jasper had been a stand-in for me, for her rage, was nearly consuming—despite Jasper and Rozalina's many attempts to assure me I was not at fault.

The memories alone were draining; I couldn't imagine trying to explain everything that had happened to someone else…even Alice.

We were on the road in her bright yellow Volkswagen bug when the repeated vibration of my cell phone, forgotten in the bottom of my messenger bag, snapped me out of my fog. "Were you out of service range the whole time?" Alice asked as I dug through the pockets, trying to find it.

I nodded, finally pulling it free from beneath my wallet, my passport, and a pile of loose change: a mix of crowns and euros that I momentarily thought about throwing out the window. I flipped it open and my jaw promptly dropped as I saw I had fifty-nine missed calls and twenty-eight messages. "I don't get this many calls in one week," I whispered, confused.

Alice was frowning as well. "Maybe it was Interpol trying to get a hold of you?"

"Maybe," I allowed. I didn't want to check the messages until we were back at the apartment.

It was easy to ignore Alice's curious sideways glances as I gazed out the window at the too-wide freeways and towering skyscrapers of downtown Seattle. I averted my eyes as we crossed the narrow strip of water that separated Lake Union from Portage Bay, unable to look towards the sprawl of the University of Washington campus. I managed to lift my eyes by the time the little yellow bug was threading through the tree-lined streets of Ravenna, surprised to find I felt no relief as Alice pulled up to the curb.

I paused in the doorway, trying to absorb the reality that I had been gone for only a week and a half…but it somehow felt as if I'd been gone for years. The long low sofa set in front of a coffee table and television, the shelves of books holding Alice's design manuals and my random collection of fiction, and the mix of house plants and framed photos on the walls all seemed to belong to someone else, someone different.

"I need a shower," I muttered, avoiding Alice's gaze as I ducked into my room, dropped my bags on the floor, then darted down the hall to the bathroom. I stood under the stream for far longer than necessary, willing myself to feel tired, to feel sad, to feel anything. I had thought when I saw Alice that I would be able to cry. But I felt nothing.

Wrapped in a towel and perched on the futon that had acted as my bed since I'd first moved out of the dorms, I finally dialed my voice mail. The first call was from my mother, her weekly check in. The second was from Dr. Cullen.

"Dr. Whitlock just called and let me know how things are progressing. It sounds quite promising and very interesting. My fingers are crossed!" I closed my eyes, deleting the message with a shaking hand.

The third message had been left only three days before…the day I'd fled Český Krumlov. "We need to talk." The voice was all too familiar. I couldn't believe his demanding tone, staring at the phone with annoyance. What did he want? To rub my nose in his success? I angrily deleted the message, then sucked in a breath at the next.

"If you're able to retrieve this message, contact me as soon as possible." There was an edge of desperation to his voice, though the words were as commanding as ever.

"I need you to call me."

"I want to talk to you."

The messages went on. Never asking, never apologizing, never explaining. He simply demanded, as if he was so used to people obeying him that he couldn't conceive of even framing his statements as requests. The final message was a slight variation on the others. "You should be in Seattle by now. I can still be reached at this number. However, my office will transfer you through if you prefer to make a local call."

I stared at the phone, open-mouthed. I couldn't imagine what he wanted. And quite honestly, I had a strange desire to defy him—as much as I may have wanted to speak to him, to try to understand why he'd acted as he had, I had no wish to appease him by doing as he asked. I laid back on the mattress, my fingers loosening their grip and allowing the phone to fall to the carpet with a soft thump.

Moments later, it rang. I flinched off the mattress, scrambling to grab it off the floor. My eyes widened as I saw the long string of numbers indicating an international call. I couldn't answer, watching dumbly as it went silent. Seconds later, the light indicating a new message flashed across the screen.

As if moving through water, I slowly dialed my voice mail. The message was brief, similar to the others. I exhaled in exasperation, tossing the phone across the room.

Though I was achingly tired, I was only able to stare at the plaster of the ceiling, images from the past week flashing through my mind. Father Petr's kind smile. Erich joking about American monolingualism. The Gothic gate leading to Charles Bridge. A lambchop covered in ketchup. It was as if now that I no longer had the book to distract me, my memories were forcing me to re-experience the trip…but it had been _no_ vacation and if I could have turned off the internal slide show, I would have.

As if marking the hour, the phone rang again. I didn't rise from the bed. When it rang for the fifth time exactly five hours later, I rose from the futon, picked it up from where I had tossed it to the floor, and exited my room for the first time since I'd arrived home.

Alice was perched on the sofa with a bowl of pasta cradled in her small hands. "Bella! How are you—" Her voice stopped short as she saw the strangely determined look on my face, silently watching as I stalked into the kitchen, stuffed the phone down the disposal, and flipped the switch.

I felt a strange sense of satisfaction at the grinding noises coming from the sink, flinching as a shard of plastic ricocheted off my forearm.

I turned off the disposal and pivoted to return to my room. Alice's voice was almost afraid as she called from the couch, "Bella, are you okay?"

"I'm just really tired," I replied flatly, shutting my bedroom door behind me.

I only emerged in the morning when I heard Alice making the giant pot of coffee that was her customary morning companion. "Can you call in sick for me?" I asked, watching as she bustled around the kitchen, bright as ever.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked, her voice challenging.

"There's nothing to tell, Alice," I replied quietly, sagging against a counter. "Edward Masen got the book. That's the end of it."

She eyed me dubiously before exhaling through her nose. "Fine." She crossed to the sofa where her purse was sitting and pulled her phone from an outer pocket. I returned to my room as I heard her letting the office assistant know I wouldn't be in.

I rarely left my room in the week after my return. I tried to eat when my stomach grumbled but often found that nothing sounded good, opening and closing the refridgerator door multiple times before finally returning to my room. The only thing that seemed to offer any relief was running the bathwater as hot as it would go and lying beneath the still surface. I would stare up at the white tiles, the sound of shifting water in my ears, holding my breath as long as I could. It was the only time I could get my mind to go blank, counting the seconds until I would have to lift my lips above the water, inhaling the steamy air into my lungs.

Alice tried to engage me, tried to ask about the trip—where I'd gone, what I'd seen. I made an attempt to tell her innocuous details but even those memories were sharp and painful. Thankfully, she could see my distress and eventually left off trying to get any information.

On the seventh day, staring sleeplessly at the ceiling of my bedroom, I heard Alice's phone ring above the chatter of the television in the living room. To my surprise, a knock soon sounded on my door. "Yeah," I croaked, my voice hoarse from disuse.

Alice poked her dark head through the door, a faint frown between her brows. "It's a Dr. Whitlock."

I lifted my head from the pillow, knowing my hair must be its typical haystack. "He called your number?"

"People get creative when you throw your phone in the disposal." I couldn't help blushing, rising from the bed to take the phone from her hand. Though I could see Alice wanted to linger in the room, I firmly shut the door before speaking.

"Jasper?"

"Miss Svan!" I was caught off guard by the exuberance in his voice, recalling how weak he'd still seemed when he was discharged. "Happy to be home?"

"I—I don't know," I stuttered, not wanting to admit I'd barely left my room, much less the apartment.

"I know things were crazy when you left here," his voice was gruff, but then lightened with disbelief as he laughed, "Edward Masen actually offered to buy me a chair!"

"What? !" Endowed chairs were almost impossible to come by for professors as young as Jasper. I hadn't seen Edward since he'd cornered me in the elevator and had no idea he'd approached Jasper after my departure.

"Yeah, can you believe it?" He laughed.

"Assauging his guilt," my voice was deeply bitter.

"Sure, as would I if I had his kind of money. The guy clearly feels like it's his fault Viktoriya lost it."

"He put all of us in danger by keeping us in the dark about her behavior," I couldn't keep the harshness from my voice, brow furrowed as I spoke. Somewhere inside, I knew part of my fury was really directed at myself, but I pushed that knowledge away.

"Yeah," Jasper allowed. "It was a pretty dumbass thing to do. But I can kind of see why."

My mouth dropped open. "What? !"

Jasper's drawl didn't seem to register my reaction as he went on, "Well, he's obviously a control freak. He's accustomed to pulling the strings. Did you know he runs background checks on everyone he works with?"

"Unfortunately, yes," I breathed.

"Viktoriya's came up clean. He never thought she'd do anything violent."

"So I see he successfully bought you off," I snapped without thinking.

There was a brief pause. "I'm going to pretend that after all the shit we went through, you would think better of me than that." Jasper's voice held the same calm anger he'd displayed when I tried to accuse Rozalina of not being trustworthy.

Sudden, unexpected tears filled my eyes. "I'm sorry, Jasper," I whispered.

"I didn't accept the chair. I told him there are more important things to spend his money on. Anyways," his voice had regained its levity and I marveled at his easy ability to forgive my rudeness. "This is not somebody accustomed to surprises, to not being in control, to not knowing where all of the chess pieces are on the board."

"To not getting his way," I added.

"That too. In any case, I have a feeling whether or not he'd told us, Viktoriya would still have lost her marbles and come at me with that knife."

"But if he'd told us—"

"Then what? We would have bought guns? Started wearing Kevlar vests?"

I was choking on tears, unable to argue with his reasoning. But I couldn't absolve Edward of everything he'd done...I couldn't. "I don't know," I finally whispered.

"Just…think about it, okay?" He could tell I was upset, his voice quiet. I wiped at my eyes, angry with myself for feeling so overwrought, trying to remind myself that it was only a book—that I had no reason to be so worked up over a one night stand.

Jasper went on, his tone lightening. "Anyways, I wasn't calling you to put you in tears. I'm going to be in Seattle soon and wanted to be sure you'll be around."

"Of course!" I exclaimed, still sniffling. "I can get you from the airport—the sofa pulls out." I took a deep breath, my sense of guilt slightly lifting. "It's the least I can do."

Two days later, waiting in the arrivals lane at SeaTac, I couldn't help my bright grin in response to the sight of Jasper emerging from the terminal in his corduroy jacket, wheat curls falling into his hazel eyes. "It's so good to see you!" I said sincerely as he climbed into the cab of my truck.

"You, too, Miss Svan." He looked much better than when I'd last seen him, the butterfly bandages almost entirely gone though the heavier gauze was still visible, poking up from beneath the collar of his jacket. Small pink lines criss-crossed his hands when he lifted them to the vents in the dashboard, bringing a frown of regret to my brow. I wondered if the scars would always be visible.

"You sure your roommate isn't going to mind a house guest?"

"Not at all," I smiled.

Alice had grumbled but finally sighed, "If it gets you out of your funk, I can live with a scruffy professor for a week or two." Given her acceptance, I was surprised to see a dark cloud settle over her face the moment she walked in the door after work, blue eyes glittering in a way I found worrisome. That look generally meant she was on the warpath.

"Alice, this is Jasper Whitlock," I started introductions, gesturing to where Jasper sat at the opposite end of the sofa.

"Right. I know," she snapped, heading into the kitchen without looking in Jasper's direction. He glanced towards me, a faint look of worry flashing across his features before his usual easy smile slid back into place.

The sound of cupboards slamming was accompanied by angry muttering before Alice re-emerged with a glass of red wine in her hand. "How was work?" I asked as she dropped into the armchair, trying not to be deterred by the mutinous set of her mouth.

"Fine," she said shortly before gulping half the glass. Turning to Jasper, she asked, "So you're the one who ditched her in Dresden?"

Jasper's eyes widened by the slightest fraction before his brows lowered, his voice taking on that calmly angry tone I was all too familiar with when he replied. "What crawled up your ass and died?"

Alice gasped. "How dare you talk to me that way!"

I straightened, gaze darting back and forth between them, "Guys, please—"

"I'll talk any way I want," Jasper's twang was in full effect, hazel eyes blazing as he glared at Alice.

"Coming in here, like nothing's wrong—"

Jasper frowned, "What are you on about?"

Alice flung a hand towards me, her voice furious, "She's been a zombie for a week and you show up all la-di-da, Mr. Southern Charm—"

Jasper turned to me though Alice was still berating him, a single brow quirked with concerned confusion. I turned to Alice, cutting her tirade short, "Alice, this past week has nothing to do with Jasper." My voice was so firm, gaze steady, that she swallowed the last of her words, blue eyes widening.

"Really? But you've been so…sad."

"I know. Thanks for bringing it up," I added sarcastically. "But it has nothing to do with Jasper."

"But you look happy."

"Happier," I admitted. "I'm glad he's doing okay after everything that happened."

Alice's eyes ranged over Jasper's face, seeming to take in for the first time the gauze that shone white against his throat, the fading cuts that zig-zagged across his hands and face, some still faintly scabby. "I—" she managed to whisper.

"Jasper, this is Alice Brandon," I said, finally finishing my introductions. That seemed to break the ice, Alice laughing uncomfortably while Jasper chuckled. "Maybe I should get wine for the two of us, as well," I added, rising from the sofa.

Jasper and Alice dominated the conversation in the following hours, their drawls becoming more pronounced as we polished off the first bottle of wine. I was grateful the topics tended to be about the Texas Longhorns and Louisiana Gators, the frustrations of academia, the insanity of graphic design, and other things that had nothing to do with incunabula, Europe or my recent wallowing. When Alice triumphantly held up the second empty bottle, I finally tottered off to my room to collapse fully dressed, face first into my bed. I could still hear them talking as I drifted into sleep, dimly giving thanks for the fact that this was the first night since…that night…that I was able to pass out without staring at the ceiling for hours.

My room was dark when a faint hissing disturbed me. Disoriented, I briefly wondered if I was having a nightmare about snakes. Then my bedside lamp clicked on and a weight settled next to me on the bed.

"Alice?" I mumbled, wiping drool from my chin.

My petite roommate was perched next to my head, legs crossed beneath her, like a cat impatiently waiting to be fed. "You're awake!" Her lips were stained faintly purple with wine, blue eyes bright if slightly unfocused as she smiled down at me.

"You were hissing…and turned on my light," I reminded her, pushing my hair out of my face. I felt terribly cotton-mouthed though my clock showed I'd only been asleep for three hours. "It's three o'clock in the morning, Alice."

As if she hadn't heard me, Alice asked, "You really weren't blue about Jasper?"

I frowned, shaking my head as I tried to understand why she was in my room posing this question. "No, Alice. I promise."

"You never…made out with him or anything?"

I made a disgusted face. "He's _Jasper_," I said, as if that explained everything. "It'd be like kissing my brother."

"You don't have a brother," she pointed out, poking my shoulder with a tiny finger.

"Alice," I said, beginning to understand. "I was largely trapped in a car with him, or stuck in a library or records office—this was not a romantic trip." I peered up at her, then pushed myself away from the mattress so I was in a sitting position as well. "What's this about?"

Alice tilted her head shyly, blue eyes fixed on her nervously fidgeting hands. "Just…when I walked in and saw such an attractive guy…I immediately thought he'd broken your heart."

I bit my lip, filled with a sudden cold, hollow feeling. I didn't want to think that Alice was right, that the severity of my reaction indicated a hurt far greater than losing the book. I pushed the thought away—it had been a meaningless one night stand and it was being toyed with that had me so upset. "No," I finally whispered. "I consider him a very good friend." I paused, absorbing what she'd said. "You really think Jasper's attractive?" I asked, unsuccesful in hiding my incredulity.

Alice grinned impishly, twisting her hands excitedly. "You promise you're not interested in him?"

"Alice, I promise. Now tell me what's up."

"I think he wanted to kiss me a second ago—"

"Kiss you?" I exclaimed, then immediately glanced towards the door, wishing I'd kept my voice down. I thought he was only into blondes—though I could understand him making an exception for Alice.

"Yeah. But I had to be sure you didn't have a prior claim."

"At three in the morning," I added wryly.

"I really want to kiss him," she admitted, glancing at the clock.

"Believe me, you have my permission." I flopped back down on the bed with a sigh.

Alice leaned down, kissing my cheek with an audible smack. "Thank you!" she cried, leaping off the bed.

"You're welcome," I replied into the pillow.

I woke surprisingly early, my bladder protesting the amount of wine I'd drank. I stumbled into the hallway, poking my head into the living room to see if Jasper had slept comfortably on the sofa. My eyes went wide as I saw it hadn't been pulled out, the sheets and blanket still neatly folded on the coffee table.

Continuing into the bathroom, I couldn't help berating myself, angry to think I'd ever thought someone so out of my league might have been interested in me. Why couldn't I be like Alice and Jasper, setting my sights on someone who was right for me? No, I had to get my hopes up about some savant millionaire who'd turned his pursuit of me into a mindfuck of a game. I slumped back into my bed after using the bathroom but was unable to fall asleep again.

While I knew Jasper and Alice were both capable of casual flings, it became rapidly apparent that this was no such thing. They would both corner me whenever the other was out running an errand or late at work, rapturous with praise for the other, eyes so bright you might have thought they were on drugs. I was happy for them but grateful when they went off alone together, the fog of mutual infatuation a bit much to deal with given my own persistent apathy.

Jasper, for all intents and purposes, had been the third roommate for a little over a week when his phone rang one evening when we all happened to be home. Alice was busy making dinner in the kitchen, the bright chatter of her voice difficult to resist as I leaned against the counter, watching her dice peppers.

"It's for you, Bella," Jasper called from the living room.

"What?" I asked, confused.

"It's Dr. Cullen. He says he needs to speak with you."


	24. Penance

**Disclaimer:** you know the drill. Reviewers get a teaser.

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**Twenty-three**

_Penance: the word derives from Old French and Latin '__poenitentia__,' both of which derive from the same root meaning 'repentance,' the desire to be forgiven. Traditionally, penance has been viewed as a punishment (the Latin __poena__, the root of pen(it)ance, means punishment)…_

Though Jasper's presence in the apartment had forced me from the numb despair I'd suffered the first week of my return home, I had never felt the need to gird myself as I did now. His presence might compel me to get out of bed, sip a cup of tea with he and Alice before they set out for the day, and rush through a shower shortly before they came home in the evening, but I had in no way reclaimed the life I'd led prior to the trip to Prague.

I had not visited the University of Washington campus, much less my office; I had not browsed the internet for scans of newly public incunabulum or checked my email for auction notifications. The most recent copy of the _RBM_, the rare book and manscript journal, was gathering dust on the coffee table. The person who had led that sheltered, contented life seemed like a ghost, a wispy figment of another time. I could almost see her, gaze downcast, lost in thought, unaware of the world around her. I somehow wanted to go back in time, to tell this ghost of myself that her world was too small, too narrow, that life could offer unexpected surprises…

In seeing Dr. Cullen, I knew I'd be encountering that ghost everywhere, a faint figure in the corridors, seated in his office, blindered to anything other than the books that had dominated her…_my_ world. So when I got his call, I knew that regardless of what he had to tell me, I would have to call upon some reserve of strength I wasn't sure I had.

Alice had always said that clothes are armor but I'd never taken her seriously. Now, I dug through my closet, trying to find something that wasn't jeans or tees. I sighed as I settled on a pair of khakis and a saphhire blue shirt that buttoned along the front, princess seams and a peter pan collar making it my most feminine top by far. I put in my contacts and blow dried my hair before slipping into a pair of loafers. Taking a deep breath, I considered myself in the mirror in the bathroom.

Though I felt so different, my pale face was largely unchanged, brown eyes a bit too wide with nervousness, chestnut hair longer than usual and curling at the ends where it fell over my shoulders. I had yet to regain my appetite and my cheeks were faintly shadowed with hollows, my hands shaking slightly as I reached up to smooth my brow. Taking a deep breath, I straightened my spine, threw on my canvas coat, and set out the door.

Dr. Cullen's office was located in the medical center, a large complex that included the hospital and took up several blocks along Pacific Street. I parked in the underground garage across from the center, hurrying through one of the side entrances with my gaze firmly fixed on my feet. His secretary smiled and waved me through the moment I entered the surgical office suite, too distracted to note my barely whispered greeting.

My pace slowed as I passed her desk, approaching the open door to Dr. Cullen's office. I was strangely glad to see he was on the phone, high forehead furrowed, briskly waving me inside and gesturing to shut the door behind me. I sank into the midcentury armchair that faced his large, battered desk, the computer shoved into the far corner, the surface covered in medical charts and papers.

"If you'll get in touch with the patient coordinator, she can schedule the surgery." I stared down at my hands as I listened to his familiar voice, uncertain how to begin…not sure of what I could even say. I'd never felt as if I'd so thoroughly let someone down before…not even my father. "Great. Of course. Thanks." I heard him hang up but couldn't lift my eyes.

When he spoke, his voice was as kind as it had always been. "Bella." I lifted my head, surprised. He'd never used my first name, always highly formal. "Dr. Whitlock told me what a difficult time you had." He shook his head and momentarily closed his eyes; they were a faded blue imbued with wisdom. "Had I known the risks, I wouldn't have asked you to go."

"Dr. Cullen," I began, still surprised. "I don't think anyone could have known things would end up as they did."

"Still," he said regretfully. "Thank God Dr. Whitlock is alive and well," he shook his head again, the pale blond of his hair threaded with white, the color flat beneath the fluorescent lights. "I've already apologized to him but given your understandable sick leave, I feel I should—"

"Apologize? !" I interjected, too shocked to let him finish. "I should apologize to you! The _Aurea Legenda_—"

"Bella, nothing is more important than your safety." It was Dr. Cullen's turn to interrupt, his tone firm and brooking no argument. His gaze was almost baleful as he regarded me over the desk. I bit my lip, briefly closing my eyes. If only he knew how I'd contributed to that danger, failing to tell Jasper what I knew, how we were being followed.

"But that's not why I asked you here," Dr. Cullen continued, his expression shifting from concerned severity to pursed curiosity. I barely noted how he was sifting through the papers on his desk, unable to believe that he felt somehow at fault for what had happened in Europe. I only shook myself from my fog when I realized he was trying to hand me a glossy brochure. "Do you know anything about this?"

It took me a moment to process what I was seeing, blinking several times as if to clear my vision. I opened up the brochure but saw only more pictures of beautiful books that were all too familiar; I then turned it over, trying to find a name, a sponsor, anything to indicate that it was him doing this. "The Seattle Art Museum…" I said faintly, still unable to understand.

"It'll be the biggest exhibit in twenty years," Dr. Cullen replied. I looked up, searching for answers in his expression but he appeared just as confused, brows knit together, hands tented beneath his chin. "Do you have anything to do with this?"

"No!" I instinctively exclaimed without thinking. "How could I? Why? What purpose would it serve?" I realized the pitch of my voice was climbing and took a deep breath, struggling for calm.

"He's never exhibited his collection before."

"I know that!" I replied, biting my lip. That had always been my main complaint about Edward Masen, the reason for my frustration every time the university was outbid.

"So why would he choose to do so now?" Dr. Cullen asked, his gaze piercing.

"I—I don't know," I stuttered, completely at a loss.

Dr. Cullen sighed, his gaze dropping as he gathered his thoughts. After a long pause, he spoke. "I want you to know, Bella, that you will always have a position here at the university."

My breath caught in my throat, caught off guard by the shift in topic as well as his extraordinary generosity. I felt tears pricking my eyes but swallowed, blinking them back. "Thank you," I replied. Then, without thinking, I blurted, "I'm going on sabbatical."

I hadn't known until that moment that I would choose to do such a thing. It wasn't until he spoke, essentially promising me that I would always have my job, that I knew I couldn't do it anymore. Dr. Cullen was clearly surprised but he tried to offer a few words of support. I was glad we were soon interrupted by a surgical resident for I had no idea what I would have said if he'd asked what I planned to do or where I wanted to go. At that moment, my thoughts could only fixate on one thing—the person I had to see before I did anything else.

Backing out of his office with a wave, I hurried through the foyer past his secretary and down the hall to the elevator banks. Moments later, I was at a computer monitor in the health sciences library, looking up the address and printing out a map.

I felt possessed, crossing against the light as I hurried over Pacific, dodging four lanes worth of traffic in my haste. I sped out of the parking garage, the engine of my ancient truck grumbling in protest as I accelerated through a yellow light, my lips tight with determination.

The skyscrapers of downtown Seattle seemed like a science fiction metropolis after the historic beauty of central Europe. I cursed as I fought through traffic, maneuvering my truck around several city buses, hellbent on reaching my destination. I was soon pulling into the parking garage beneath the black glass and steel of the Columbia Tower, the tallest building in the northwest. I couldn't help craning my neck before the darkness of the garage swung over my head, sucking in a deep breath and briefly wondering if I'd lost my mind.

I pressed forward, pushing away the doubt, willfully ignoring the small voice that was straining to tell me I was crazy, that this would accomplish nothing, that my motives for being here were dubious at best. My hands were tight fists in my coat pockets as the mirrored elevator silently sped through the first sixty floors, my heart crashing into my ribs as the doors smoothly opened upon the lobby of Whittier-Veill.

I couldn't help momentarily pausing, taken aback at the quiet wealth of the décor—a stark contrast from the concrete and rabbit warren corridors of the University of Washington. Dark marble floors speckled with gray spilled towards a reception area that could have easily been mistaken for a luxury hotel. Exotic blooms nestled in modern crystal vases behind the receptionists and on the glass coffee table where magazines like _Forbes_ and _Business Week_ were elegantly fanned. Impossibly flat monitors perched on desks that must have been mahogany, the wood glossy and visibly heavy. The two receptionists behind them wore tailored suits, headsets fixed over their neat hair. It took all of my willpower not to glance down at my own outfit, which had felt like armour only an hour ago, before stepping into the lobby.

I approached the receptionist who seemed less severe, lifting my chin as she met my gaze. "I'm here to see Edward Masen." I was proud my voice didn't shake when I spoke.

She shot me down with one simple question. "Do you have an appointment?" Her dark eyes were dismissive, her tone intimating that she knew I did not.

"No," I replied coolly, refusing to be intimidated. "But if you'll let him know I'm here…" Her hands continued to hover over the keyboard instead of moving towards the telephone on the other side of the desk. My eyes narrowed, anger flaring in my stomach. "Please let him know Isabella Swan is here." I repeated my request more firmly, struggling not to snarl the words.

I could see her restraining her own anger, jerkily reaching for the phone and dialing an extension "Mr. Masen, there is an Isabella Swan—" The words cut off abruptly, her eyes widening. "No, she's here, sir." She paused, her lips thinning. "In the lobby. But you have an eleven o'clock with—" She bit her lip. "Yes, sir."

The receptionist stood as she hung up, obviously avoiding my gaze. "I'll take you right back, Miss Swan."

"Thank you," I replied, struggling to hide the sudden nerves that shot through my veins.

The corridors alternated between glass and teak panels artfully stained to bring out the grain of the wood. I thrust my sweating hands into my coat pockets as the receptionist stopped in front of a door that was slightly ajar, gesturing for me to go inside. Muscles tensing, I sidled through and quietly shut the door behind me.

I turned around only to find my gaze transfixed by the wall of glass that looked out over the waterfront, gray skies melting into the gray waters of the Puget Sound. I had never seen the city from such a height, my breath caught in my throat at the simple, modern beauty of it. I inhaled, forcing my gaze from the jaw-dropping view, only to find myself equally taken aback at the man cautiously standing behind the simple Danish desk on the far side of the room.

Against a backdrop of built-in shelves filled with leather bound books, Edward Masen appeared every inch the erudite, successful man of business I knew him to be. Garbed in a tailored suit, the jacket buttoned over his flat stomach, the aura of wealth and privilege was like a halo surrounding him. The emerald tie at his throat highlighted the color of his eyes, his jaw smooth of stubble, the touseled messiness of his hair the only hint of his humanity.

I met his eyes calmly though I could feel my pulse hammering in my throat. I remained by the door, refusing to move further into the room or take a seat in one of the wire Bertoia chairs arranged before his desk. "How far ahead of us were you?"

I spoke quietly but the office was as silent as a library, the walls likely filled with some magical soundproofing material. Edward's eyes shifted to his desk. "It varied."

Another non-answer. I inhaled deeply and turned, ready to leave.

"Bella, wait!" I stopped, my hand on the latch that would take me away from him forever. "It was never more than a day or two," he continued, an edge of desperation in his voice. I turned again, meeting his gaze. His eyes were suddenly strained, a hint of frustration flickering across his expression. I found myself unable to react, a strange sense of calm enveloping me. He continued, "There were...complicating factors keeping me from Český Krumlov."

"Viktoriya." My voice was a whisper.

Edward nodded. "And the false report she'd made. I was meeting with some government officials in Prague to make sure nothing was going to detain you."

A thought struck me. "That's why Jakub…" My voice trailed off, recalling the tense interview in the conference room when the detective had first approached Jasper and me. He'd recognized Masen's name and been visibly annoyed—probably because he felt undermined by Edward's intervention.

"Jakub?" Edward asked, a frown crossing his brow.

"Detective Černý," I explained, inexplicably flushing. "He was certain you weren't the source of the tip." I knew I had no reason to feel embarrassed, that I had not encouraged the detective's interest in me—but my cheeks only grew hotter as Edward's brows rose.

"Ah," he said faintly.

"We were ahead of you in Kutná Hora," I replied, stubbornly returning to the matter at hand.

"By a matter of hours," he nodded, his expression smoothing. He gestured towards one of the chairs in front of his desk but I silently shook my head, remaining by the door. Even though I denied the draw I felt towards him, I didn't trust myself to be near him. Letting his hand fall, Edward continued, "Father Petr wasn't very helpful—"

"He was trying—" I protested.

Edward interrupted, not allowing me to finish. "He'd been there such a short time and had no institutional knowledge. He didn't know the gardener's name or how he'd been burnt." I bit my lip, listening. "Dr. Banner, my research expert, came to the same conclusion as you and Jasper regarding the defaced page."

"Dresden."

Edward nodded. "But he insisted there was no way a text could have survived there. Because Dr. Banner's assistants were already canvassing the entire area: Karlov, Sedlec—"

"What we should have done in the first place," I interjected regretfully, shaking my head.

"But you learned so much about Immnauel by going to Dresden," Edward's tone was surprised.

"It wasted time," I replied quietly.

Edward paused, considering me, a frown flitting over his brow. "Because I trusted Dr. Banner and his team, Emmett and I were able to follow you there."

I regarded him steadily, voicing the question that had plagued me for so long. "But how did you know where we were?"

Edward had enough sense to let his gaze drop, his voice quiet as he spoke to the desk. "I had you followed."

"From the very first day?" I struggled to hide the incredulity from my voice. I couldn't believe how out of my element I had been.

"Yes." He lifted his gaze, his green eyes unwavering. "Had that not been the case, I never would have known Viktoriya was involved."

I lifted a hand to my eyes, trying not to react. Edward continued, his voice firm. "The agents believe she must have been keeping an eye on Dr. Whitlock's office. She trailed behind you that very first day when you, Dr. Whitlock, and his graduate student went to lunch."

My hand fell from my eyes, my mouth dropping open. My gaze darted blindly around the room, trying to remember if I'd noticed anything, felt any sense of suspicion…but I'd been so jet lagged and distracted that first day in Prague, I wouldn't have noticed a grizzly bear on my heels. "Given covert tactics aren't her forte, the agents recognized her as she followed you over the border into Germany. I felt it made sense to closely watch the situation and intervene if necessary."

"If necessary…?" I faintly echoed, trying to understand.

"She was acting erratically," Edward tried to explain, his voice insistent. "I had repeatedly told her that her assistance wasn't necessary but she kept trying to involve herself. I didn't think—" He stopped, taking a deep breath. "I didn't think she was capable of doing what she did, but I was still concerned." He stopped again, his lips thinning, as if he'd revealed too much.

The room felt leaden, the silence full of all the tension between us. I finally spoke, trying to break it. "So you knew I was in Dresden. Seeds of suspicion had been planted about Viktoriya. But why did you approach me?"

Edward responded too quickly. "You'd been drinking and it was clear you'd had too much. Once Emmett reported that the grad student had left alone, I thought it best to check on the situation. When I saw Dr. Whitlock couldn't be relied upon—"

"Edward," I interrupted. I was unsurprised by how high-handed he'd been but that wasn't the point. "I would have been fine. I might have gotten lost but a taxi driver, a local, someone would have pointed me in the right direction."

"It was late," he stubbornly insisted, dark brows drawing together.

I met his gaze sadly. "No, Edward." He knew that wasn't it and so did I.

He looked away first, his eyes falling to his desk again. The words were barely audible when he spoke. "You intrigued me."

I waited, thinking he would say something more. Finally, when it became clear he wasn't going to elaborate, I summarized, "So from that point on, you left the research to Dr. Banner and his team, and used agents—"

"Former KGB," Edward helpfully added.

I couldn't help a soft huff of bitter laughter. "You used former KGB to keep tabs on me and Dr. Whitlock."

Edward nodded, unable to meet my gaze, his face pale.

I struggled to push aside my anger, uncertain if I'd have another opportunity to question him so thoroughly again. "If you were following me so closely, how was she able to tamper with Jasper's gas tank?"

Edward lifted his gaze and his voice was tight when he spoke. "Believe me, Demitri was fired before breakfast." He paused. "He called me to report your departure from the hotel given the early hour and the fact that you were alone. I let him know I would follow you myself and to stay put at his post at your hotel in case Dr. Whitlock went anywhere."

I shook my head, amazed at his thoroughness. I inhaled deeply, my gaze falling to my shoes, wondering what I'd expected, what I'd hoped to accomplish by coming here. Though he had, with initial hesitation, answered my questions, he had yet to apologize. I had intrigued him…no different than a puzzle, easily solved, easily set aside. Collateral damage in his pursuit of the book.

Edward's voice interrupted my thoughts, "It was fortunate I was there, wasn't it?" My head darted up at the uncertain note in his voice.

I couldn't respond, my thoughts too tumultuous to figure out what he meant. I bit my lip, answering with a question as he'd so often done to me. "At that point, you knew the location of the book?"

Edward's face paled, his eyes darting away. "Dr. Banner had narrowed down the location of Flohr to Zlatá Koruna but it wasn't until they found Pavel, the caretaker for the camp, that the facts came together." An admiring note entered his voice as he went on, "What you had discovered in Dresden, Dr. Banner didn't figure out until he stumbled upon Pavel."

"That Immanuel was Jewish."

"Right," he attempted a small smile but I couldn't be flattered by his admiration. Seeing I was unmoved, Edward's smile faded. "I had to go back to Prague to try to make sure nothing came of the false tip Viktoriya had given the police. Dr. Banner let me know they'd found a treasure trove of books but I asked him to leave them in the chapel until I arrived." He took a deep breath. "When I finally got to Český Krumlov, after driving for half the day, I found one of the agents urgently trying to get a hold of me, looking for permission to intervene in a situation that was escalating." He sucked in a breath, "That you were walking the streets alone with those...animals following you."

I paled at the memory…and everything that had followed. Edward's voice was angry, recalling that night. "I'd just gotten back from trying to keep you safe...to make sure the authorities understood why you were in the Czech Republic…and there you were, in the midst of danger despite my best efforts."

I could barely choke out the words, gripped by a sudden realization, "I'm not...your—your responsibility." I sounded like such a burden, like an additional task he'd had to take on while tracking down his true objective.

Edward was visibly agitated, his hands fisting at his sides. "But I was the person putting you in danger! The closer I got to you, the more erratic Viktoriya became!" He shook his head, his jaw clenched.

"So why didn't you stay away?" I could feel my temper flaring. I willed the the anger to grow, to subvert the feelings of desperation and sadness that were threatening to swell from my very toes and overtake me. "So I intrigued you." I inhaled deeply, trying to gain control of my accelerating breathing. My eyes darted wildly around the office, noting how the only thing that seemed out of place in this elegant, luxurious space was me. "I get it." I breathed. "I was a distraction…that happened to come with complications."

Edward attempted to interject, "No, you don't—"

I shook my head. "I'm not sorry that you did what you could to help—I don't want to sound…" I struggled to speak, closing my eyes. "I don't want to seem unappreciative." After all, who knew what might have happened to me had he not been at the meadow—or used his influence to assure I wasn't arrested. He had probably thought, as had I, that there would be no danger once the search was over.

"Bella, goddamnit!"

"But you don't have to make anything up to me," I continued, thinking of the exhibit. I couldn't help wondering if he'd be doing this at all had Jasper not been attacked. Jasper…a sudden thought occurred to me, my eyes flaring wide as I realized there was one more person I needed to speak with.

"Bella, look—you don't understand." Edward's insistent voice brought me back from my thoughts and I frowned at the condescending note in his voice. I knew I shouldn't care, but I was disappointeded that he thought I was too dense to figure it out.

"A momentary distraction does not mean a lifetime of atonement," I told him somberly. No one could have anticipated Viktoriya's actions. Perhaps, in time, I'd even be able to forgive him and not just fake it as I was doing now.

Edward came around from the desk and I held up a hand, not certain I'd be able to hold it together if he touched me. "Don't." He stopped mid-stride, his pale, handsome faced fixed on me, his gaze stunned as he watched me turn and walk out the door.

I was halfway down the hall, but not too far to hear the sound of something crashing and breaking. I flinched but didn't stop moving. There was one last puzzle piece I needed to place before I left Seattle behind.

I decided to wait at my apartment, uncertain how it would affect me to see the physical evidence of Edward's atonement. I was curled up on the sofa, pretending to watch the news when Jasper arrived, a friendly smile on his lips.

"Can I talk to you?" I asked, not bothering with a greeting. "Before Alice gets home."

"Sure thing," he drawled, moving into the kitchen to grab an orange from the fridge.

I didn't bother to pull punches, raising my voice so he could hear me in the other room. "Are you working on the rare book exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum?"

Rounding the corner into the living room, a flicker of surprise crossed Jasper's features before his expression smoothed. He looked down, pretending to focus on peeling the orange in his hands. "I might be."

The inclusion of illuminations in the brochure Dr. Cullen had shown me had first planted the idea that this must have been the reason that brought Jasper back to the States. I'd been far too distracted by my own misery to take note of his oblique references to heading downtown to work, not realizing until I'd walked out of Edward's office what exactly that work must be.

Jasper spoke, his voice lacking any accusation or judgment, interrupting any tirade I might have wanted to deliver. "I'm not the only one who keeps things to himself."

I inhaled sharply, my gaze darting from his face, completely unwilling to find any pity or, worse, forgiveness there. I couldn't speak, my hands clenched so tight, my knuckles shone stark white against my already pale skin. I didn't have a leg to stand on and we both knew it.

Jasper's voice was conciliatory, ever unwilling to dwell in conflict, when he spoke next. "It's an amazing chance to work on some rare illuminations I've only ever read about. And you know," he paused, ducking his head. "He feels so shitty about what happened—what does it cost me to let him feel better?"

I realized I couldn't see, the tears had welled so quickly in my eyes. I blindly nodded my head, unable to hold Jasper accountable for his choices. When I replied, it had nothing to do with the exhibit or books, my voice thick, "I'm so sorry, Jasper."

"There's no need, Bella," he answered. He sank to the couch and gave me a quick, warm hug. "Shit's confusing sometimes," he finally added, sitting back, his arm still draped across my shoulders.

I managed a wet chuckle, wiping the tears away. "Yeah," I agreed. "It is."

I slowly rose from the sofa and headed to my room, pulling out the rolling suitcase and messenger bag I'd toted around central Europe. I couldn't help thinking of how blissful Jasper and Alice had been…I didn't resent it but it only added fuel to the flames of my disappointment, of the humiliation of my totally erroneous assumption that Edward Masen might be interested in me. Now, knowing that Jasper was working for him on this confounded apology of an exhibit, I knew I wouldn't be able to put this ridiculous debacle behind me. I had to go. Filling the bags with clothes and toiletries, I realized I didn't know how long I was going to be gone. Then I realized that it didn't matter.


	25. Forks

**Disclaimer**: You know the drill. Original bits are mine.

Thank you to everyone for your feedback. I'll do my best to provide a teaser for those who leave a review.

* * *

**Twenty-four**

_Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God._

_Matthew 5:9_

"No, I miss you, too," I admitted, staring out the kitchen window, the phone cradled between my shoulder and my ear. "But it's only been two weeks, Alice."

The sky was an uncharacteristic blue, a brilliant canopy above the slender evergreens that surrounded my father's house. I had walked in those woods almost every day after dinner, even when rain poured from the sky as if the ocean itself was emptying over the Olympic peninsula. It had been refreshing to be in a place where I wouldn't encounter any ghosts of myself, the little house entirely empty of memories that could bring pain, no taunting reminders of what I'd once thought important.

"You're not usually so dramatic," I added wryly.

"Well, between the fact that you were gone for more than a week, then hibernated for another week," I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, unable to deny Alice's claim. "And things had just started to feel a little normal again before you hightailed it to Forks. So in my mind, it's almost as if you've been gone a month."

"Isn't Jasper keeping you occupied?" I teased, drying my hands on a towel before turning through the archway that led into the living room.

"He certainly is," Alice answered, her tone sly. "That worked out quite handily, didn't it?" Jasper was taking over my share of the rent now that my sabbatical was official, though Alice insisted on keeping the second bedroom ready for my return. I had tried to insist to her that I didn't yet know if I was going to come back but she refused to hear it.

"Yes, it did." It was definitely convenient for my finances; I wasn't collecting pay though I was still technically employed by the university. I'd realized some sense of my former self was returning in that my logic and practicality won out over the various, fleeting desires I had to jet off to Mexico or Indonesia. I knew I needed time to collect myself before I made a final decision about where I would go next. "Will you thank him again for me?"

"Oh, I do," Alice giggled. "Every night."

"Alice!" I blushed, pushing the thought of them together out of my brain.

"Just say you'll come back for the long weekend," she pleaded.

"Memorial day?" I'd entirely lost track of weekends much less holidays.

"Yes!" Alice exclaimed, exasperated. "I promise to keep it casual—beer and pizza, no sorority sisters trying to spackle your face with make-up and take you out dancing."

"Wow, Jasper really is having an affect on you," I marveled.

"I know," she replied dreamily. Then, realizing I was trying to avoid giving an answer again, she insisted, "Say you'll come up for the weekend or I'll get Charlie involved."

"Okay, okay," I gave in. My dad had always been a sucker for Alice's charm and would likely try to ship me to her via FedEx if she asked him nicely.

"Be here by six and we'll go out for dinner, okay?"

I was torn about returning to Seattle. It wasn't simply wishful thinking that being away was doing much more for me than laying on my futon, trying to sleep the pain away. Charlie was the complete opposite of Alice, his own manner so private and reticent that he wouldn't have dreamed of prying into my reasons for taking a sabbatical and temporarily moving in. Telling him that I'd had a rough time at work was enough of an explanation. He'd helped tote my bags up the stairs to the bedroom I'd occupied during school breaks and occasional summers, his manner gruff as he touched my shoulder in silent support before returning to his football game.

Unlike my mother, Charlie had never been demonstrative. He cared but he showed it in ways that might not first seem obviously supportive: he tuned up my truck, changing the oil and vacuuming the interior; he took me to the local diner for dinner, re-introducing me to the small circle of friends and acquaintances who probably hadn't seen me since college; he brought home a flyer from the library advertising their need for volunteers. "Thought you might be interested," he muttered, tucking into the casserole I'd made for dinner.

"Thanks, Dad," I smiled, my heart contracting at his kindness. I felt cared for without having my thoughts and feelings under a microscope. It was also nice to get a break from the love fog that had enveloped the apartment after Alice and Jasper so successfully hit it off.

During the day, when Charlie was at the station, I would pull out the stack of maps that had largely sat unused in the truck's glove compartment and plot a course for the day. I'd made the winding drive down to Lake Quinault and hiked the trails that threaded through the Olympic National Forest. I'd driven through lashing rain to Moclips, my bright grin genuine when I reached the rocky beach just in time to see the sun break through the clouds. I'd taken nearly an entire day to make my way out to Neah Bay; I'd clapped my hands to see sea lions in the marina, then made my way to the Cape Flattery trail to visit the western most point in the contiguous United States.

Some days I stayed closer to home, simply visiting La Push or Strawberry Bay, carefully picking my way over the beach, or sitting and waiting for the tide to recede and reveal a menagerie of sea creatures: mussels, clams, little red crabs scuttling beneath rocks when I approached, geysers of water giving away where geoducks were retreating into the sand, and snowy gulls swooping above it all, waiting for me to leave them to their feast.

The brisk ocean wind couldn't be anything but invigorating, the salty air stinging my cheeks when the gusts were strong enough to lift water from the waves. The crash and lap of the tide was incessant, a constant that I knew would occur long after I was gone; my problems couldn't help seeming insignificant and small in comparison, which was strangely comforting. I would come home flushed and breathless, but feeling incredibly alive.

In returning to Seattle, I worried that I'd be forced to consider all of the things I was able to forget in Forks—the fact that I'd largely abandoned my career, that my priorities had been fundamentally altered, and that I had no idea what I was going to do next.

My manner was tentative when I used my key to open the door to the apartment; though it had been only two weeks, it felt wrong somehow to let myself in. "Hello?"

"Hey!" Alice called from inside, bouncing into my line of sight. "Here, I'll put your bag in your room and we can take my car to Big Time." I'd barely crossed the threshhold and she was already ushering me back outside, her small hand firm on my elbow. Jasper followed, his gaze downcast, barely meeting my eyes with the faintest smile. Waves of uneasiness rippled through me, wondering what was wrong. Had I become a third wheel so quickly? Had they been arguing?

I barely had a chance to dwell on my worries as Alice's bug swerved towards the heart of the University District; even Jasper gripped the edge of his seat as she swung around a car that braked at the last second to parallel park. "Fucking douchebag!" she snarled.

"Alice, darlin'," Jasper began, but a fierce glare from her blue eyes silenced him.

I allowed a few minutes to pass as Alice found parking two blocks off University Avenue, squeezing into a spot barely big enough for the bug. The sky was just hinting at the coming darkness of evening, a slight cast of gray making Jasper's features seem shadowed as he kept his gaze averted from me. "Is everything okay?" I asked as Alice led the way towards Big Time Brewery, moving so quickly that I had to scurry to keep up with her.

"Look—"

"So the thing is—"

Jasper and Alice began at the same time, like a photo and its negative as they looked over their shoulders, speaking in unison. We had reached the narrow entrance of the brewhouse, students who looked too young to be in university streaming past as I paused, waiting for them to explain.

Alice feigned impatience, reaching for my hand. "Just come inside—"

Jasper interrupted, his hand gentle on her shoulder, "Darlin', we shouldn't surprise her like this."

"Like what?" I asked, growing genuinely impatient as I stubbornly waited, impervious to the insistent tugging of Alice's grip.

Alice sighed, lifting her eyes in exasperation. "Jasper's gotten close to him, working on the exhibit. And it doesn't seem fair to exclude him because of some Hatfield and McCoy nonsense—"

"You're fucking kidding me." The quiet fury of my voice stopped Alice short, her blue eyes widening at my response. Jasper looked regretful, the faintest flush touching his cheeks as his gaze dropped to the stained pavement. I sucked in a breath as I realized she'd insisted on driving to the restaurant so I couldn't make a run for it.

"Hey, guys, did I miss anything?" I whirled at the unfamiliar voice, my jaw dropping as I saw the large, burly figure of Emmett, Edward Masen's assistant and security. He looked surprisingly young and I realized I'd only ever seen him in a suit; garbed in a t-shirt and khakis, he was almost unrecognizable. His open, friendly smile further disarmed me, my mouth gaping as I stared up at him dumbly.

"Just Bella getting ready to open a can of deserved whoop-ass on Alice," Jasper replied, glancing between us, hazel eyes wary.

"Thank God you interrupted," Alice chirped, pretending to be impervious to my anger. "Can we go inside now?" She leveled a pointed gaze at me while Emmett looked between the two of us worriedly. I managed to close my mouth and, after an uncomfortable pause, reluctantly nodded, silently following as she pushed through the door and into the wood-panelled pub.

I wasn't certain if it was my immense relief that Jasper's new friend wasn't Edward Masen, or the fact that, if I was really going to think of myself as recovered from the debacle of the trip to Europe, then I couldn't fly off the handle at encountering evidence of the terrible mistake I'd made while there. Perhaps, too, I could reason that I had no real personal issue with Emmett; he was simply a piece on the chessboard and not the player.

Besides, by the time we'd slid into a booth at the back of the pub, he and Jasper were already laughing at Alice's machinations. "You mean she tricked you into coming up here?" he asked, his voice deep and slightly husky, as if he'd once been a smoker. "Slick move, short stack." I bit back a smile, realizing I could like anyone who gave bossy Alice a hard time.

Alice stuck out her tongue, fearless despite the fact that Emmett was like a sun to her tiny moon; it would take dozens of her to make one of him. "She's ridiculously hard-headed—"

"She'd have to be, to put up with you as a roommate," he teased, brown eyes twinkling.

"Maybe that's the real reason she's staying in Forks," Jasper added, winking at his girlfriend. "To get a break from you, you little dervish."

Alice gaped at the two men sitting across the table. I couldn't help laughing, "I don't know that I've ever seen her at a loss for words." Then, as Alice continued to grapple for a comeback, I gave both Jasper and Emmett a pointed look. "Don't think I'm alone in being tricked by her. You both better watch out."

The waitress arrived, interrupting the tantrum Alice was likely about to throw. After Jasper ordered a pitcher, we all burst out laughing when Alice was the only one she asked for identification. Glaring and muttering, Alice yanked at her purse, producing her driver's license.

"C'mon, short stack," Emmett cajoled after the waitress had walked away. "It's not her fault you look like a teenager."

"You should consider that a compliment," Jasper added, before Alice could protest.

"I don't know if _you_ should, though," Emmett laughed, elbowing Jasper in the ribs. "You got a thing for younger women?"

"He doesn't do undergrads," I interjected, lifting a brow in Jasper's direction. He had the grace to look embarrassed, darting a worried glance in Alice's direction.

Alice, her hands planted flat against the table, was clearly trying to decide who she should snap at first, glaring at Jasper and Emmett in turn. Finally, her shoulders sank, an unwilling smirk twisting her lips as she spoke, "I don't know whether to be more disturbed that in the short time Bella was with you in Europe, she got to know your preferences, or the fact that Emmett seems to think I look like jail bait."

Given this atmosphere, it was impossible not to grow relaxed, sitting back and listening to the banter, sipping my beer, and occasionally tapping my foot to the music that was playing.

"Aw, _Pretty in Pink_! I loved this movie!" Alice exclaimed as the soundtrack came on.

"Why doesn't that surprise me," Emmett laughed, finishing his second beer.

Alice insisted on getting up, spinning around in the tight space between the tables and the booths. Jasper gazed over at her adoringly and I felt a sudden, sharp pang…I berated myself for the reaction, reminding myself that I had no reason to be so torn up. I gazed pensively into my glass, lowering my chin so my hair fell forward; I didn't want my somber mood to affect anyone else. After a few seconds and a deep breath, I looked up and was surprised to find Emmett looking at me quizzically.

"So are you going to come to the exhibit next week?" he asked abruptly.

I blanched visibly, my hand unconsciously tightening on my glass. "No, of course not," I finally managed, glancing at Jasper as if he might rescue me from the topic.

Alice had stopped dancing, prancing back to the table with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. "But Jasper's worked so hard on it! And this is what you always say you want—education! Celebration!" she exclaimed, sliding into the booth next to me.

"I—you guys," I stuttered, my heart suddenly accelerating.

"Can't you let bygones be bygones? I can't imagine you missing something like this," Alice added, slinging an arm around my shoulders. "At the end of the day, does it really matter who found the book so long as it was rediscovered?"

"It's not that simple," I muttered, glowering at the table. Was this why she'd brought me here? Out of some misguided need to force me to kiss and make up with my rival? "You don't understand," I added, turning my head to meet her gaze.

"Fine," Alice sighed, signaling to the waitress for another pitcher. I sensed something determined in her demeanor though, and braced myself the remainder of the night for a stubborn return to the topic. Amazingly, it didn't come up.

It was nearly midnight when we stumbled back to the apartment. Jasper and Emmett were vowing to settle which one would beat the other at Halo and were arguing about the stakes, striding ahead of Alice and me as we wound through Fraternity Row towards Ravenna. "Loser has to pay for lunch for a week," Jasper offered.

"Nah, loser has to streak through the museum naked on opening night."

Alice was leaning on my arm, her feet shuffling across the pavement. "I don't know why you try to keep up with people who are three times bigger than you," I chided her.

"I can drink you all under the table," she slurred, leaning her head against my shoulder. Then, her hand tightening on my arm she asked, "Will you walk with me to pick up my car in the morning?"

"Of course,"

"We can grab coffee on the way. An Americano for you—"

"And a venti white chocolate mocha for you," I laughed.

Alice suddenly stopped, her little hand drawing me short. She met my gaze, blue eyes somewhat bleary, her wispy black hair slightly flat on one side. "I'm _so_ sorry for surprising you."

I shook my head, smiling at her effusiveness. "Don't worry about it. He's funny…and nice. And it helps that touchy subjects haven't had a reason to come up," I added. I tugged her forward, seeing the two men had drawn nearly a full block ahead.

As we approached, their voices debating the merits of the latest version of Halo reached us, Jasper's drawl mixing with Emmett's deep bass. I couldn't help marveling that I was walking the back streets of the University District with my best friend, her new boyfriend and my former partner, and the security guard of my rival. How had this happened? Had I fallen into a wormhole when driving along 101?

I shook off the reverie of disbelief as Alice released my arm and launched herself towards Jasper. Her giggles warned him of her approach but he still grunted as she landed on his back. He helpfully hunched forward so she could gain purchase, then took off at a loping run, his hands hooked beneath her knees. "Giddy up, cowboy!" she cried, their figures bouncing in and out of the street lights.

I felt a moment of discomfort as I reached Emmett, realizing we were momentarily alone. Fortunately, his focus was on the couple, a small smile tilting his lips. "They gotta be soul mates," he mused, breaking the silence.

I smiled, glad he wasn't going to bring up the exhibit or anything else that might lead to my discomfort. "You think?"

Emmett nodded slowly, his gaze lowering from the romping figures ahead of us. "I didn't use to believe in anything like that—the world is too big, with so many people and opportunities…" His voice drifted off and he shoved his hands in his pockets, as if realizing these words were uncanny coming from such a burly giant of a man. But he was unashamed as he continued, "Then you see some people, who you just know…it's meant to be."

It was suddenly difficult to swallow. Though I knew he was talking about Jasper and Alice, it felt as if he was partly aiming his words towards me. But how could that possibly make sense? Perhaps, given the type of women his boss had slept with in the past, Emmett was angling for a more subdued person to work their wiles. No…that was insanity. I tried to form a response that had nothing to do with me. "I think if something's meant to be, it'll happen. Like Alice meeting a professor who would otherwise never have a reason to be in Seattle."

"And if they hadn't met?" Emmett asked, turning his head to peer at me.

"I'm sure they would have encountered other people," I shrugged, my own gaze sliding away. Emmett simply made a humming noise that was noncommittal at best. Soon, we were upon them, Jasper having grown exhausted despite the diminutive size of his rider.

"Alright, little monkey," he wheezed. "We're nearly there."

"Not fair, Mom," she mumbled into his shoulder blade. "You never let me ride the roller coaster…" I had to suppress my laughter to avoid waking her, glad Alice's typical silliness had saved me from the strange conversation with Emmett.

In the apartment, I followed Jasper into her bedroom—their bedroom. "Go play video games," I whispered as he laid her on the mattress. He glanced up at me as he straightened from stooping over the bed.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'll get her shoes off." He tiptoed out of the room though Alice was clearly dead to the world. I couldn't help noting, as I pulled the dainty, sequined flats from her feet, that even though it had only been a short time, Jasper had already made his presence felt. His suitcase lay in the corner, a pair of ratty running shoes sat next to the door, and a plate covered with mysterious crumbs rested on the night stand. "You never eat in bed," I whispered as I pulled the covers over her narrow shoulders, knowing Alice couldn't hear.

As I eased back into the hallway, quietly shutting the door behind me, I tiptoed towards my own room.

"…not over it," Emmett was speaking, his voice strangely flat.

"What even happened over there?" Jasper was replying, frustration evident in his tone despite the fact that he was trying to keep his voice down. The sound of gunfire from the television nearly obscured Emmett's response.

"…know as much as I do, J. He won't talk about it and…" I couldn't listen to more and shuffled my feet, wanting them to be aware of my presence.

"Hey guys," I said with what I hoped was an even smile as I appeared in the doorway. "I think I'm just going to hit the hay, too."

Emmett smiled easily but Jasper looked slightly embarrassed. "I'll see you in the morning," I said to Jasper, then, to Emmett, "It was nice to meet you."

"Same here," he said, lifting the beer he'd retrieved from the fridge.

I retreated to my former room but it was a long time before I fell asleep, the sound of gunfire echoing in my ears.

I felt strangely grateful when the weekend was over, climbing back into my truck and waving out the window at Jasper and Alice on the curb. I had successfully avoided any serious pitfalls but it had been touch and go that first evening with Emmett's appearance. Still, I was happy to be going back to Forks where I knew there would be no chance of running into evidence of my poor judgment.

Somehow though, the relief I'd felt in those first few weeks felt difficult to grasp upon returning. A restlessness had invaded my bones, a current seeming to run under my skin. I would reach a destination—the beach at La Push, a remote trail in the national forest—and I'd suddenly be itching to get back in my truck. But to do what?

I'd toyed with the thought of obtaining another degree—perhaps history, a subject that had come to fascinate me after the trip. I also thought about looking for a standard library position; shelving and cataloguing books that had no real value other than the words on their pages sounded like heaven after the drama I'd experienced pursuing the priceless versions.

Charlie could sense my restlessness, never able to sit still in one room for long, cleaning counters that I'd already scrubbed, and re-organizing the contents of the fridge. Though he would never say anything, I knew I was making him nervous after we'd sat through a largely silent dinner of roasted chicken and steamed broccoli.

"I'm going for a walk," I announced, throwing on my jacket.

"Alright," Charlie called from the living room where he was watching the evening news. I detected the faintest hint of relief in the word.

As I'd done nearly every night since I'd come to Forks, I followed the trail that led behind his house into the quiet woods. Only a few days had passed since the holiday weekend, but the sky was already noticeably lighter at the later hour, a mix of gray and pale blue that left the tree tops distinct. Bird calls sounded above my head, the hoot of owls absent from the mix as it was not yet dark enough for them to hunt.

Suddenly, goose bumps puckered along my warms though it wasn't even cool enough to necessitate the jacket I'd grabbed on my way out the back door. I stilled, telling myself I was imagining the feeling. Then, the fine hairs stood up on the back of my neck as though they'd been electrically charged. I abruptly spun on my heel. I'd only gone a few paces and the clapboard of Charlie's house was still visible through the trees. To my frustration, I could see no one behind me. My gaze searched the dusk, seeking something—a squirrel, a jay, some creature darting through the brush. But there was nothing there.

The following day, feeling as restless as ever, I decided to lose myself among the books at the local library. While my intent had been to distract myself, I didn't realize how late the hour had gotten until the elderly clerk gently tapped my shoulder to get my attention. "Ma'am, we're closing up now." _Sense and Sensibility_ had clearly made me oblivious to the surrounding world, my eyes struggling to focus after staring at the pages for so long. I apologized as I reshelved the book and hitched my bag up my shoulder, turning towards the darkness beyond the glass doors.

Outside, the sky was black with the new moon, the stars faint without its glow. My truck was the only vehicle left in the small parking lot, like a boat adrift at sea. As I dug in my bag for my keys, I thought I heard steps approaching. My head shot up, peering across the cracked concrete and towards the hedges that bordered the library itself, trying to make out any figure in the shadows. But there was no sign of life, the only presence my own. Heart pounding in my ears, I strained to hear the steps I swore had sounded only moments before. Nothing. "Goddamnit," I cursed under my breath before hurrying to my truck, slamming into the cab and speeding home.

Had I not been so recently subjected to a relentless surveillance, I might have dismissed the feeling as paranoia. I couldn't imagine why anyone would have reason to follow me to Forks; after all, the book had been found and the search was over. Edward had won, despite his insistent need to apologize for the fact—entirely brought on, I was certain, by the fact that Jasper had been injured.

I checked the clock when I got to the house, my jaw set as I picked up the phone. I vowed to pay Charlie back for the international calls—perhaps I'd even intercept the phone bill to keep him from getting needlessly worried.

It took several attempts to finally get the correct number, the slip of paper I'd pulled from my bag covered in scribbles as I jotted down the referrals people provided. Finally, with the fifth call, a familiar voice met my ears. "Ano?"

"Detective Černý? It's Bella Swan."

"Bella! I am so pleased to hear from you. It must be very late where you are."

"No matter," I responded, speaking quickly. "Can you confirm something for me?"

"Of course. Anything for you."

I tried not to grimace at his enthusiasm. "Are you able to tell where Viktoriya is…incarcerated?" I paused, not sure if the student had ultimately ended up in jail or an institution. "I mean, I don't know if there's a Ukrainian form of bail, and if she might be free at the moment."

Jakub's voice was instantly concerned, low and officious as he broke in. "What is going on?"

I hesitated, closing my eyes. "I—I have this feeling I'm being watched. I know I might just be paranoid after everything that happened—especially given I'm in Forks—"

"Has anything happened—any sabotage?"

"No," I sighed. "This is crazy, I know. But it would just make me feel so much better if I knew she wasn't running loose somewhere."

"Do you want me to come to Seattle?" Had his tone not been deadly serious, I might have laughed.

"Of course not! I'm in Forks—it's three hours—Jakub, no. I just want to know Viktoriya is safely locked away, that's all."

"If you're sure…"

"I'm positive. Please, do not put yourself to the trouble."

"Alright," he sounded reluctant. "I will make some calls."

"Okay. Thanks so much. Here's my father's phone number in Forks."

After I hung up, I felt utterly idiotic but I didn't regret getting in touch with the only person I knew who could put my fears to rest. I took the stairs to my room slowly, trying to convince myself that I was seeing monsters in shadows, hoping beyond hope that it was simply my mind playing tricks on me.


	26. Port Angeles

**Disclaimer**: All original content is mine. Familiar elements belong to S. Meyers.

The original outline for Incunabula had one entry for chapter 24-26. Not sure what I was thinking given the length of each entry. Since I'll be in Walla Walla without internet for most of the weekend, I'll be unable to provide a teaser or respond to reviews. Given both of these factors, I've posted both chapter 25 and 26 today. I hope you enjoy and, for those of you celebrating in the states, had a happy Thanksgiving.

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Twenty-five**

_Saint Gildas: King Melwas of the Summer Country abducted Guinevere, taking her to his stronghold at Glastonbury. King Arthur beseiged him there until Saint Gildas intervened, persuading Melwas to release Guinevere. The two monarchs soon reconciled their differences. This tale can be found in Caradoc of Llancarfan's '__Life of St. Gildas__,' written around 1130 as well as the Welsh poem '__The Dialogue of Melwas and Gwenhwyfar__,' the surviving manuscripts of which date from the 16th century._

My left ass cheek was going to have a terrible bruise. I looked up from my position on the kitchen floor, my mind racing as I tried to figure out how to get out of this mess.

The day had started innocently enough. After the call with Jakub, I'd tried to push the entire situation out of my head as I got ready for bed. The next morning, I woke early feeling surprisingly optimistic. Charlie mirrored my mood, smiling over his coffee and calling out a greeting to me as I wandered into the kitchen. "You look chipper," I remarked as I poured myself a mug.

"It's Friday, Bells," he grinned wider, mustache lifting.

"Ah," I smiled back. I'd completely lost track without the routine of work to structure my weeks. "Heading to the bar after work?"

"A few beers, a few games of darts…" He made a flinging motion with his hand that made me giggle. "You're welcome to come. Waylon and Bill will be there."

Spending the evening with Charlie's grizzled friends reminiscing over touchdowns that had happened before my birth didn't sound all that tempting. "I'll just crack open a bottle of wine here," I replied, smiling.

"Have it your way." Charlie kissed my cheek on his way out the door, the sound of the cruiser's engine rumbling to life a few moments later, the spin of tires against gravel reaching my ears. I was able to sit still only a few minutes longer, the same restlessness that had plagued me all week sending me back up the stairs to shower, scrubbing my skin roughly, as if I could exfoliate the fidgety compulsion away. Pink and clean, I donned a pair of jeans, an oversized University of Washington t-shirt, and a hoodie before heading back downstairs and out into the cool morning.

Though I'd never been partial to the seaside tourist town where most Forks residents did their shopping, I decided to drive to Port Angeles for the day. I briskly walked along the waterfront, hands shoved into the pockets of the hoodie, watching the smiling, wandering tourists with envy. I knew I needed to come to a decision soon, that the reason for my jittery inability to sit still was borne from the fact that Forks and its environs could only distract me for so long. Visiting Alice and Jasper, and being reminded of the exhibit by Emmett, had put my former life, my former interests and passions, front and center. As long as I stayed with Charlie, I wasn't really moving on. My body knew that even if my mind continued to push that reality away.

I wandered into a quaint shop to buy salt water taffy, shaking my head over the garish magnets shaped like anchors and sea lions, the racks of post cards showing skies more blue than the peninsula had ever seen, and noisy wind chimes that rattled and clanged every time the door opened or closed.

A light rain began to fall when I returned to the street so I quickly found a coffee shop to pass the time. I sat with a newspaper before me, a cup of tea warming my hands, reading the same five sentences over and over. My mind flitted from idea to idea…graduate school…studying abroad…using my savings to travel for a time…the Peace Corps. But nothing had the same draw, filled me with the sense of purpose that my former work had.

When my stomach began growling I went on to a sandwich shop where I sat in the window people watching long after my pastrami on rye was gone. In this manner, bouncing from place to place, I managed to while away the majority of the day. It was nearly four when I finally climbed back into my truck, my sense of restlessness barely quieted.

I was still so lost in thought that I was halfway home before I realized the black SUV in my rearview mirror had maintained the same speed behind me nearly the entire way, despite the old truck's rumbling inability to get past fifty-five miles per hour. My eyes narrowed, brows lowering, unable to believe what I was seeing. It couldn't be. Why would this happen now when the book was found?

I subtly sped up and slowed down, gnawing on my lip as I waited for the SUV to signal to pass me. It never did. And it never came close enough for me to see who might be behind the wheel, maintaining the perfect distance to keep the driver a vague, anonymous shape. My breath had become increasingly shallow as I approached the town limits, cheeks flushed as my hands tightened around the wheel. Without signaling, I sharply turned into the parking lot of the grocery store, quickly craning my neck to try to catch any detail of the car behind me.

Suddenly gaining speed, the sleek vehicle roared by, continuing into town. The windows were too tinted to see the driver and my palms grew clammy as I realized my paranoia had a very firm basis in reality.

Swearing under my breath, fighting the urge to panic, I swung out of the car and approached the entrance of the Thriftway. I was debating whether to call Charlie—but what would I tell him? Without knowing the details of everything that had happened in Europe, he'd likely think I was simply being irrational. And it wasn't as if he could assign a squad car to sit outside the house—he'd hear no end of it from his colleagues.

Sighing, I continued into the store, trying to distract myself as I filled a shopping cart with a week's worth of groceries. Because my hands were full of shopping bags when I returned to the house, I didn't at first see the note sitting on the end table next to Charlie's armchair. Dumping the bags on the kitchen counter, I walked back towards the front door to lock it and discard my shoes and hoodie.

Arms caught in the sleeves of the fleece jacket, I had yet to reach for the dead bolt when there was a knock on the door. A chill ran under my skin and I thrashed to get out of the jacket, hopping towards the door in a vain attempt to reach the lock. It was already creaking open.

"Alice? !" Her jet black head was peering around the door, blue eyes intent as she saw me helplessly wrapped up in my hoodie, one scuffed tennis shoe still on my left foot.

"Hey, Bella," she said casually, opening the door more fully and stepping across the threshold. I frowned, confused, impatiently shrugging away the stupid hoodie.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well," she pursed her lips, blue eyes narrowing. "I really think you should go to the exhibit."

My frown deepened. She'd driven all the way to Forks to discuss this? "I've already told you, I'm not going."

"But you won't say why," Alice stubbornly replied, her jaw set as she faced me. "This is so unlike you—to miss something like this. You live for this."

"But I've already told you," I frowned at her impatiently, toeing off my other shoe as if to reiterate the point that I wasn't going anywhere. "You _don't_ understand." Her dainty figure was uncharacteristically garbed entirely in black, her pale face like a cameo above her turtleneck.

"I understand something happened between you and Edward Masen when you were in the Czech Republic," she answered calmly. I struggled not to flinch at his name but Alice easily detected the reaction, her eyes filling with a sympathy I didn't want to see, turning my head away.

It was then that I saw the note. The paper had been torn from the pad Charlie kept near the phone in case he got a late night call from the station. It wasn't my handwriting but my name was signed at the bottom. "What is this?" I whispered. In block script, the note claimed I would be gone for the weekend but back in Forks by Sunday.

"Bella, I know you need to go to this show. I don't see how you can move forward until you deal with this."

I might have been persuaded by the kind sympathy evident in her tone but I was far too busy bristling with anger, my voice going shrill. "What are you talking about! You can't make this decision for me—I'm not a child to be dragged around!" I realized my hands were shaking and flushed with the knowledge that my response reflected just how much the thought of seeing him again affected me.

"You may not be a child but you're acting like one, hiding away and living in denial—not even living, just…drifting!" Alice snapped back as she lost her own temper, planting her hands on her hips. "You need to face this!"

"Face what?" I cried, backing up. She was suddenly scaring me, her expression so set, her little frame surprisingly determined as she squared her shoulders in the open doorway.

"This thing between you and Masen," she replied, eyes flashing. "Jasper's told me—"

"Told you what? !" I retorted, glaring at her. I couldn't believe she was doing this, stubborn, bossy little force of nature. "That he used me? That he slept with me and then made certain I knew I was being used?"

If I expected to shock Alice with this news, I was to be disappointed. Her lips thinned, her expression somehow becoming more determined. "There's more to the story, Bella," she stabbed a finger at the ground as if to emphasize her point. "The things Jasper's said—"

"Because he feels guilty that Jasper got stabbed!" I cried, lifting a hand to my head. I didn't want to hear this—I didn't want to discuss it. In this moment, with my equanamity so thoroughly gone, I knew that my supposed recovery had been a façade at best. I was no better now than the day I'd returned to Seattle and shoved my phone in the garbage disposal. Like the night I'd fled Edward's car, I wondered exactly what he'd done to me.

"Then shouldn't his guilt be absolved now that Jasper is employed in managing the exhibit?"Alice's voice was equally desperate, trying to get through to me.

"You can't know what he's thinking or feeling…" I muttered, denying the angry tears that were forming in my eyes.

"No, but Jasper can…He says it's like a black cloud comes into the room whenever Masen checks in on the exhibit."

"That's because he's an asshole," I choked out, biting back the sob that was trying to escape my throat.

"You don't think that," Alice shook her head. "You wouldn't have slept with him if you thought that."

"Goddamnit, Alice!" I cried, my hands forming fists at my sides. "I'm not going to this exhibit!" I shook my head. "I'm sorry you came all this way for nothing—"

"Bella," Alice interrupted me before I could finish, her pointed chin lowering as she regarded me with a level, unwavering stare. "I hoped it wouldn't come to this but I am completely prepared to physically take you down and drag you to Seattle by your hair if I have to."

My mouth dropped, gazing at her with complete disbelief. I easily had to outweigh her by thirty pounds…but I was notoriously clumsy and Alice took Judo and salsa classes for fun. The decision not to risk it was swift; as long as I avoided engaging with her, there was no chance that either one of us would get hurt…or that I'd end up an unwilling passenger on my way to Seattle.

I spun on my heel and bolted towards the archway that led into the kitchen—and the back door where I could escape my demented, controlling, well-meaning roommate. I no sooner hit the shining linoleum than my feet, clad only in cotton socks, shot from beneath me. I landed hard, the cushion of my left ass cheek not nearly enough to keep the grunt of pain from escaping my lips.

Just then, the back door swung open, silhouetting Emmett's burly figure garbed in the dark suit I was accustomed to seeing him wear. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," I exhaled.

"Haven't I heard you say that before?" he replied calmly. His hands were loose at his sides but I didn't doubt he could easily shift into the offensive, tossing me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"I seriously can't believe you guys!" I cried, defeat evident in my voice.

"I can't believe you!" Alice replied from the archway of the kitchen, her arms crossed as she looked down at me like a disappointed mother. "You're so stubborn!"

"So where's Jasper?" I asked, not bothering to reply to her observation that was a far more accurate description of her rather than me.

Alice sniffed, looking away. "He didn't agree with our methods."

Emmett interrupted, his voice dry, "_I'm_ only here because she was threatening to use shit like chloroform or Rohypnol and I didn't want her to accidentally kill you."

I couldn't help sharply laughing, pushing myself up on my elbows to regard them both. "Thanks for the support, Emmett," Alice retorted.

"I told you to watch out for her," I reminded him.

He just shook his curly head, lips twisting with some semblance of an apology and a smile. I gazed up at them, trying to figure out if there was any way I could wrangle myself out of this mess. Finally, my shoulders sank as it became clear that, between Alice's determined, baleful stare and Emmett's bulk, the only place I was going was Seattle.

Seeing my acquiescence, Emmett reached down a hand. "Let me help you up."

"And don't worry about clothes," Alice replied, her voice regaining its usual bright tone. "I've got the perfect things for you in the car."

I shook my head, realizing I'd been defeated from the moment she opened the door.

I was unsurprised to see the black SUV waiting in the driveway. "How long have you been following me around?" I asked, anticipating the answer.

"I got in the day before yesterday," Alice answered as she hopped into the back seat. I climbed in after her. "Emmett came down this afternoon when he realized I was serious."

"Were you following me?" I asked, eyeing her closely as she began pulling clothes and toiletries out of a small suitcase sitting on the floor.

Alice looked away, suddenly distracted by the scenery outside the tinted windows, the houses passing more swiftly as Emmett stepped on the gas. "I've only been to Forks a handful of times; I wanted to get the lay of the land."

Or she'd just been working up her courage…but I didn't have the energy to argue with her, numbly watching as the contents of the suit case filled the seat next to her. "You'll want to change into the dress shortly before we get there—I'd hate for it to get wrinkled since the drive is so long…"

I tried to tune out my surroundings, pushing away the reality of the fact that I was now going to be attending the opening of the exhibit I'd tried to pretend didn't exist—an exhibit that under any other circumstances I'd be dying to go to. Highlighting the heart of the matter was that I didn't even care about the books that were on display; my heart was in my throat for the man who I knew would be present, the mastermind of it all.

The ferry ride was perhaps the worst part of the trip; without the distraction of passing cars and towns, the reality of the situation set my nerves on edge. I had to get out of the car, Alice warily watching as I approached the bow of the boat. I just grimaced at her. "I'm not going to jump into the Sound."

"I wouldn't put it past you," she retorted. "Besides, your hair is getting wrecked." She'd thrust a number of bobbie pins in it, loosely piling the chestnut tresses on my head. In the breeze whipping past the boat, tendrils tugged free, dancing against my cheeks. I shrugged at her, turning to face the green blue water.

Emmett hadn't left the SUV, his cell phone fixed to his ear as he checked on last minute security measures the museum had instituted for the opening night of the exhibit. His voice was brisk when we climbed back into the car, "There's an anteroom where you can detain her. A foreign passport as identification?" He glanced over his shoulder at me as Alice continued to fuss at my hair. "Please ask Sunderland to make sure she doesn't leave the room." He paused. "Yes, Sunderland—take him off the mezzanine and make sure she doesn't leave the anteroom."

He briskly hung up as the ferry docked but hooked his Bluetooth over his ear. "Emmett?" I couldn't help whispering.

"Yeah," he replied. His voice was terse but I knew his shortness had nothing to do with me.

"Do you think it's her?"

"Who?" Alice asked, small hands darting around my face, attempting to fix my hair.

"The woman who hurt Jasper," I replied, turning my gaze to Alice. I hadn't heard back from Jakub—and though I was relatively certain it was Alice who had set off my paranoia by following me over the past few days, I couldn't be entirely certain.

"What? !" Alice shrieked, finally absorbing what I'd said.

"We have it under control," Emmett interjected. "Sunderland is armed." I shivered at the blunt reality of his words, my arms suddenly prickling with goose bumps. "But let's hope it doesn't come to that," he added, brown eyes meeting mine in the rear view mirror. I swallowed and nodded, trying and failing to picture a good outcome for an evening I'd already predicted would end in tears. My fists clenched, now praying that it was _only_ tears that might accompany my attendance—I couldn't live with myself if anything more dire happened.

The final thirty minutes on the freeway felt like a lifetime, the SUV speeding past traffic in the left most lane, lights flashing by in the darkness. After having spent the first two hours of the journey wishing Alice had never been born, I was now almost anticipating arriving at the exhibit—if only to make certain that the person being detained wasn't Viktoriya.

Alice was equally nervous, shoving a black cocktail dress at me with stiff arms, her features more pale than usual. She hopped into the back most seat to don her own dress, her black hair more spiky than ever after pulling the turtleneck over her head. Her small voice called in my ear, slightly breathless as she struggled with the zipper in the confined space. "Emmett can you check—"

"On it," he replied, picking up his cell phone and hitting a button. He adjusted the ear piece and was soon speaking. "Yes? Great, thanks." He hung up and called over his shoulder. "The detainee is still waiting—apparently not patiently." His voice was grim but determined, hands firm upon the wheel as the lights of downtown came into view. It was now nearly nine and the skyscrapers were unevenly lit up, a yellow patchwork against the night.

Swinging on to the off ramp, Emmett barely slowed as we merged with Friday night traffic, failing to signal as he switched lanes, dodging slow drivers who were looking for parking. Finally, the Seattle Art Museum was before us, glowing with light and activity, people flocking around the entrance in suits and gowns. I was suddenly grateful for the cocktail dress Alice had brought, the black shantung stiff against my skin, like armor among the well-dressed crowd.

Emmett pulled up to the curb without cutting the engine. A valet who, given his muscled size probably doubled as security, jumped into the drivers' seat as Emmett opened my door. His voice was firm, though his hand was gentle on my elbow. "I won't let anything happen to you, or anyone else for that matter."

I nodded quickly, swallowing my fear, lifting a nervous hand to my hair. Alice batted my fingers away as she shimmied out of the car, her petite figure garbed in a red strapless sheath that highlighted her dark hair and ivory skin. Strappy heels brought her head nearly to my nose but I couldn't regret that she'd provided me with patent silver flats. As if reading my mind, she wryly commented, "I knew you'd trip if I tried to put you in stilettos."

I managed a wan smile as Emmett again took my arm and led us towards the entrance. I wished I could mimic the determined expressions they both wore but knew I was only pale and anxious walking between them, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape as I struggled to breathe evenly.

Directly inside the glass doors where people called out to one another in gay voices, waving and exclaiming in greeting, Emmett firmly told us to wait. His broad shoulders turned down a narrow corridor directly to the left of the entrance, his stride intent. I couldn't help reaching for Alice's hand, clasping it in my own clammy one nervously. "It'll be fine," she murmured, blue eyes lifting to mine, insistent in her faith. I just nodded my head, unable to believe her. Even if this detained person turned out to be a false alarm, I still had to face the man who had so thoroughly wrecked me—if only to satisfy Alice and Jasper by proving he truly wanted nothing to do with me.

"I tell to you, I know the curator!"

My head sharply lifted at the sound of a voice I knew all too well, ringing from the corridor where Emmett had disappeared. Without thinking, I released Alice's hand, tracing Emmett's steps on uncertain feet.

"Bella?" Alice was on my heels, clearly convinced I'd lost my mind.

"But why are you armed? How did you get this into the country?" Emmett's voice reached my ears as I ventured closer, his frustration apparent.

"I buy here—you Americans have such things at your grocery shops!" The familiar voice sneered.

Around an abrupt corner, a doorway framed a small room lit by fluorescent light. Inside, Emmett was standing eye to eye with a towering blonde, a man who I could only guess was Sunderland watching on in confusion.

"Rozalina?" I called, hesitant as I reached the open door.

"Bella!" The graduate student turned from Emmett, her derisive glare fading as her lovely face lit up in the manner that always caught me off guard. I realized I had never seen her in anything besides jeans and basic tops, her cornsilk hair always caught in a braid. Now, she was utterly devastating in a column dress of dark cream whose hem reached her toes, the drapery of the fabric doing nothing to hide her long, graceful limbs, a single strap crossing over her left shoulder. Her hair loosely waved down her back, making her resemble nothing so much as a pale Aphrodite.

"Wait, hold on—"

But Emmett, nor the man who I assumed to be Sunderland, could hold her back, shrugging past them as though they were insects not worthy of her notice, arms lifting to embrace me.

"She's got Mace!" Emmett warned. But I was already returning her hug, unexpected tears filling my eyes.

"So would you have," Rozalina snapped over her shoulder, "If you saw your boss covered in blood where you work."

"You're the graduate student!" Alice cried behind me. Suddenly, small arms were squeezing me from behind, locking me into a threeway hug. "I will always be grateful for what you did to save my Jasper," Alice vowed, her voice heavy with sincerity.

Emmett and Sunderland heaved audible sighs of helplessness.

Rozalina released me first, slim hands on my shoulders, ice blue eyes considering me in her grave, serious way. It had once unnerved me but now I could only smile tentatively, knowing she wouldn't look at me at all if she didn't give a damn. "I did not expect you to be here," she quietly stated.

I shook my head, blinking back the tears. "I wouldn't be if it wasn't for this one," I nodded towards Alice, who had also stepped back, eyes shining at someone she clearly regarded as a new life-long friend.

Rozalina reached a hand towards her. "Rozalina Mihalova."

"Alice Brandon," she grinned back, firmly shaking the proferred hand.

"Not for long, I think," Rozalina's smile was small, but spoke volumes.

Alice broke into a peal of laughter while Emmett rolled his eyes. "Can you at least allow me to confiscate the Mace before we head into this exhibit?" he demanded impatiently. I looked at him with surprise; though I didn't know him well, it seemed out of character for him to lose his good humor so easily.

Rozalina muttered something under her breath that I suspected was a Russian curse word…but she dug into the little gold clutch Sunderland had been holding, removing the small cannister.

It suddenly hit me that I no longer had any distractions or calamities to keep me from the exhibit. Sensing my rising panic, Alice took my hand. "You can do this," she whispered firmly. Rozalina, understanding the situation, nodded in agreement.

"Let's go," she added, leading the way out of the little room where she had been detained by security.

On unsteady feet, with Alice at my side, I followed.

Emmett's exasperated voice called behind me. "I speak Russian, you know!"

His only answer was Rozalina's husky chuckle.


	27. Seattle Part Two

**Disclaimer**: You know the drill. Thanks for reading.

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Twenty-six**

_Saint Hugh of Lincoln: At the time of the Reformation, he was the most known English saint after Thomas Becket. Born at Avalon, Hugh's primary emblem is a white swan, in reference to the story of the swan of Stowe which had a deep and lasting friendship for the saint, even guarding him while he slept. The swan would follow him about, and was his constant companion whilst he was at Lincoln._

Amidst the anxiety and fear, and, if I were entirely honest, a twinge of anticipation that I would have never admitted to Alice that I was feeling, there was also room for awe at the glitter and color of my surroundings.

While I thought I recognized some of the passing figures from auctions and estate sales, the majority of the people mingling and sashaying through the enormous entrance hall of the museum were strangers to me. Cocktail dresses in shining satin or silk, evening gowns in rich jewel tones, and sparkling jewelry all combined to create an impression of wealth and sophistication. The men were like ravens against this opulent backdrop in dark suits or tuxedos, the occasional cuff link flashing as a glass of champagne was lifted.

It wasn't simply the attendees who filled me with awe; the museum itself had been transformed, heavy maroon drapes alternating along the glass wall that faced First Street, a narrow carpet in matching red providing a path through the entrance hall to the stairs and up, presumably to the exhibit. The marble slab of the ticket counter was instead functioning as a coat check, the volunteers behind it in black bow ties and vests. This same uniform was worn by the caterers swanning among the richly garbed attendees, trays of champagne and hors d'ouvre in hand.

"You're going to break my fingers," Alice whispered.

I started, my gaze darting to my hand as I forced myself to loosen my grip. Then, weakly smiling I responded, "You deserve it."

She snorted as we trailed after Rozalina's graceful figure. The crowd seemed to part for the Russian blonde, as if she were a queen passing through their midst. I had no doubt this was partly due to her jaw dropping beauty, but also because of the cold, impenetrable look which was her default expression. She instinctively followed the stream of carpet towards the wide sandstone stairs that led to the second floor, the fabric of her gown rippling around her legs like a waterfall.

The pounding of my heart abruptly drowned out the conversation and laughter around me, the noise of the hall obliterated but for the persistant thump in my ears. As I climbed the stairs, I tried to think of what to say, of how to react. Would he approach me? Would he finally apologize now that he was in the ideal setting for his absolution? Would I be able to refrain from snatching Rozalina's confiscated Mace and spraying him liberally in the face?

All of these thoughts scattered like dust as Alice suddenly released my hand and launched herself at Jasper, who stood poised at the top of the stairs.

"Jasper! Look who's here!" she gestured to Rozalina, who had preceded us by only a few steps. The blonde smiled gently at her former advisor, lifting a hand to shake his. Jasper shook his curly head, pulling her into a hug.

"I know it's only been a month but it feels like years," he grinned. I couldn't help smiling at the reunion, trying to relax but unsure of what to do with my hands.

Seeing me, Jasper turned, crooking his arm at me. "Bella! So she didn't use chloroform?" I made a scoffing noise as I stepped towards him for a quick hug. "I'm glad you're here," he said solemnly, features smoothing, hazel eyes hinting at the slightest worry.

I ducked my head, not wanting him to be concerned for me. "Thanks, I think," I murmured.

"I didn't know you owned such a thing," Rozalina broke the somber spell that had momentarily fallen over our party, gesturing at the black suit Jasper was wearing.

"Spiffy, eh?" he grinned, tugging at the bow tie at his throat.

"You are too handsome," Alice smiled up at him, her expression so loving I felt my own heart falter. I suddenly had a deep need to get away.

"I'm going to—to look at the exhibit," I stuttered, hands fists at my sides as I struggled not to wring them nervously.

"Don't go far!" Alice called, but I was already wandering away, trying to focus on the books that I ordinarily would have been dying to see.

As I cleared the knot of people that had formed at the top of the stairs, I found myself taken aback at the displays that wound around the space. It was unlike any exhibition of rare books I'd ever seen, the cost of which I couldn't imagine. Each tome was open to a significant page, a glass case protecting the vellum or parchment from indiscriminate fingers. Above the case, a flat screen monitor was mounted, digital scans of the entire contents of the book beneath slowly flipping past.

My lips parted in wonder as I passed the first book, an Insular manuscript opened to the Gospel of John, his stylized image framed in ornate Celtic knotwork. My gaze darted up to the screen to view the other pages, eyes fixed as the image zoomed over an individual letter, highlighting the extraordinary detail devoted to text that was on par with a ten point font. As I moved on to the other displays, I saw that the exhibit was arranged sequentially then geographically, the early British work transitioning to Frankish texts, then the richer examples of the Holy Roman Empire, before the more abundant selection of books from the Romanesque and Gothic periods appeared.

A long case along one wall contained fragments, individual pages, sometimes torn, mounted like exotic butterflies beneath the glass. I couldn't help lifting a hand to my mouth at one of the fragments, the lower left corner missing, so richly illuminated that the parchment beneath was no longer visible. "This is my favorite," Jasper's quiet voice reached my ears.

I started, realizing I'd become completely oblivious to my surroundings. The chatter and laughter of the attendees suddenly rang loud, an embarrassed flush crossing my cheeks as it struck me that I'd been mooning about like an awestruck child for the past twenty minutes.

"This is amazing, Jasper," I managed to recover my manners, lifting my eyes to the multiple monitors circling the room, the images of illuminated manuscrips flashing across their screens.

Jasper simply smiled, clearly pleased with himself though I somehow knew he'd never boast or brag. "He—" Jasper paused, his smile faltering, before he plunged on, "He spared no expense. I've never had so much leeway in preparing an exhibition."

I couldn't help my gaze darting away, my hands suddenly cold as I was reminded of why the ability to view these books was possible…and that my own reaction was a strong testament to the fact that, despite my love of the medium having been shaken by what I'd experienced in Europe, my so-called sabbatical was an exercise in futility. As Alice had said, I was hiding, accomplishing nothing more than persisting in my denial…dealing with my heartbreak in a childish, unhealthy way.

Sensing my distress, Jasper tried to change the subject. "It's thought this fragment is by Gregory Master but so little of his work has survived that the attribution is difficult to prove." I nodded, pretending to listen…but my throat had closed, my eyes glazing over as the word struck me again. Heartbroken. My mind stuttered and stopped, grappling with the truth, the reality that everyone but me could see. While my devastation was inextricably tied with the failed search for the _Golden Legend_, the depth of my pain had nothing to do with the book. I had refused to admit it these long weeks, but now, standing in this exhibit, it was painfully obvious.

Jasper went on, but I couldn't hear him, struggling to swallow, face pale, my hands clenching and loosening.

Suddenly, his hand was on my shoulder, pulling me from my mental tailspin. His palm was warm against the bare skin there, exposed by whisper thin spaghetti straps. "You look lovely." Jasper clearly saw I was flailing, his kind gaze forcing me to focus, to breathe.

I could only nod, unable to choke out a word of thanks. I glanced down at the cocktail dress, the dully shining shantung that nipped in at my waist before flaring from my hips, selected by Alice probably weeks ago. I knew I must look plain next to Rozalina in her cream column or Alice in her loud red sheath, but I didn't doubt that Jasper meant what he said.

"The incunabula are through there," he spoke again, inclining his head towards an archway through which more people milled, laughing and drinking, merry as I wished I could be. I nodded again, forcing a shadow of a smile to cross my lips before turning away from him.

I saw nothing as I moved forward, my mind trapped like the frame of a film, unable to move past the truth of my situation. I drifted through the cluster of people beneath the archway without seeing them, lip caught between my teeth, hands clasped in front of me to stop their trembling. Though in my peripheral vision I could sense the flashing of monitors, the shape of things directly before me were indistinct, a meaningless blur compared to the sharp realities I saw internally.

I was nearly to the opposite side of the room before my gaze finally focused, a familiar image drawing me from my tormented thoughts. The woodcut of William Caxton had been blown up to poster size, his bearded face instantly recognizable to my eyes. It was the first in a series of poster boards, six others marching down the wall towards a single book encased in glass upon a pedestal. I shifted to the second poster, a reproduction of a painting of Margaret Plantagenet, the Duchess of Burgundy. Her dark hair was crowned by a conical steeple hat so typically associated with Renaissance costume, her expression benign as she returned my gaze. The placard beneath her image went on for paragraphs, mostly facts I already knew. I moved on to the next image and lifted my hand to my mouth.

The Jewish quarter in Prague was such a landmark that pictures of it had cropped up on every travel and reference site I'd looked at prior to my departure. Though I'd not had a chance to personally visit, I recognized the Hebrew lettering on the clocktower and the disheveled headstones that filled the cemetery there—the only place they could be buried. My gaze lost focus as I recalled my conversation with Jasper during our second drive to Zlatá Koruna, my lips parting at how clearly that day came back to me…the sun pouring through the windshield, the green tree tops waving in the breeze…

Swallowing, I forced myself to move to the next poster board and felt my lips lift beneath my fingers at the image of a nineteenth century lending library. The placard beneath included a single sentence, stating that the history of book ownership is rarely clear. The smile instantly faded as my eyes fell upon the black and white photo that came next.

I couldn't imagine how Jasper had found the image but I didn't doubt its veracity. The two men wore early twentieth century garb, stiff collars and ties, suit jackets and vests, hair slick with pomade. The older man was seated, the younger man positioned behind him and to his left. In the background, shelf after shelf of books rose to the ceiling. Was it a shop? A private library in a home? It was impossible to be distracted by their surroundings for long, my gaze fixing on the solemn stare of the younger man. Immanuel. Isaac. I was unsurprised to see he had been handsome and tried to imagine him taking a young Marian Öster to the Volkspark…

Next to the black and white photo, the infamous shot of Dresden following the firebombing, the sculpture that resembled an angel in the foreground, took my breath away. The hours we'd spent in the library there were as distinct to me as if it were yesterday, unable to think straight as I paged through photo after photo of the devastation. I couldn't help a sad smile at the restored Frauenkirche coming next, blinking sharply as I realized my eyes had filled with tears.

I lowered my head, unable to continue, my fingers tightening over my mouth to bite back any sound of distress that might break free. Seeing the book…it felt meaningless after so vividly revisiting everything I'd done to find it. Though the pedestal on which it perched was inches away, I turned, forcing myself to breathe slowly until the tears cleared from my eyes.

When I lifted my head, I found by an uncanny coincidence that my gaze was directly aligned with Edward Masen's figure.

I had the sudden realization that I had never truly encountered him in a social setting. At the club in Dresden he had quickly pulled me into a corner before we had ducked out onto the street. In the Volkspark, for all intents and purposes, we may as well have been on our own; it was the same for our walk along the Vltava. And in the meadow, it had felt as if we were the only people in the world…

It was only at the auction that I had seen him in the company of people with whom he was somehow acquainted. The memory of the hearty greetings I'd overheard, alerting me to his presence, seemed suddenly sharply significant.

Beneath the artful lighting of the museum, Edward Masen was remote and aloof, green eyes distant thought he was surrounded by people. The acknowledgements I'd overheard at the auction were ratcheted up to a shrill, jockeying quotient at an event he was responsible for hosting; people were vying for his attention, lifting a glass to toast him, to shake his hand, to simply capture his gaze. While he ignored no one, responding to every raised glass of champagne and word of greeting with a nod of his head, he remained apart.

It did not escape my attention that at least two thirds of the people clustered around him were women, most of them beautiful or at least so sleekly groomed that they gave off the impression of beauty. I felt my breath catch in my throat at the abrupt realization that not only was I entirely out of my element—_his _element—I could not even aspire to the level he was accustomed to. And with that, my heart seemed to stop in my chest as I again realized that Alice was right.

I had been pushing away the heartbreak for weeks. I had been denying that my pain and need to escape had anything to do with Edward, beyond my humiliation at having been used. I had told myself again and again that it was about the book, that I had no reason to be so upset about a one night stand. But, as I gazed at the women around him in gowns that undoubtedly cost more than one of my paychecks, I knew I was so hurt because I'd wanted him.

I'd wanted to make him laugh. I'd wanted to talk with him and hear about his day. I'd wanted to show him my favorite scans and pick his brain about controversial texts. I'd wanted to ask if he used Ludwig Hain's system for organizing his collection. I'd wanted to rile him, and tease him for his pomposity. I'd wanted to stumble, and have him catch me. I had never wanted a one night stand.

I felt cold and pale, my eyes too wide, lips parted as I watched Edward, surrounded by women who did not need clothes to be their armor. Though he remained aloof, he clearly belonged among them. At that moment, his gaze found mine, the barest flicker of recognition indicating he'd seen me.

I ducked my head, turning away. Alice was right. As much as I could still strangle her, I had needed this shock to force me to see the truth. I opened my eyes and saw I was now facing the _Golden Legend_, a remote overhead light illuminating its pages.

Through my regret and pain, I felt a twinge of confusion at seeing the book opened to a hagiography that appeared so unremarkable. I vaguely remembered that Saint Hugh of Lincoln had once been widely venerated in England, but he was hardly worthy of being the one page this book should be open to. My brow furrowed as my confusion deepened, wondering at such an arbitrary choice—even the accompanying illustration was likely inferior to those for Mary or John the Baptist.

The simple woodcut showed the bishop in full regalia before a plain altar, a crosier in one hand, a chalice in the other, his head bent to the swan at his side. The white bird's long neck was gracefully extended, reaching nearly to his shoulder, black gaze fixed on his gentle expression.

Still frowning, I bent my head to examine the text, trying to recall the details of the life of this particular saint. As I deciphered the sixteenth century English, my breath caught in my throat. What…was this? It couldn't be a message…for me? My mouth gaped then snapped shut as I came to the end of the entry. Abruptly, I spun on my heel, uncaring of who saw my sudden movement or traumatized countenance. My gaze searched for Edward beneath the archway… but he had disappeared, along with the knot of acolytes who had surrounded him.

My confusion became all encompassing, a fog that rendered me a sleepwalker, muting the chatter around me, dulling the track lights overhead. I realized it wasn't just my hands that were shaking; my arms were trembling as I raised them, weakly hugging myself. I tried to move forward but found my feet were numb, stumbling as I attempted to move away from the case holding the _Golden Legend_.

I had to think. I had to get away. My breath came roughly as I forced my feet to coordinate, awkwardly hurrying through a doorway and into a room where the re-creation of a printing press hunkered. I nearly knocked into an older woman in a black gown and pearls who was bent examining the moveable type, muttering an apology as she looked up with an offended expression.

I gained speed, scurrying forward, uncaring if I was conspicuous, my breath coming faster as I tried to maneuver around a knot of people gathered outside the restrooms. I knew it was only a matter of time before I would no longer be able to hold back the tears and I had no desire to lose it so publicly. I kept moving towards wherever there were fewer people, turning a corner, darting down a corridor, trying to find a private space, an unused room, anywhere I could rest, and breathe, and think.

A back hallway led past a facilities room filled with breaker boxes and wires, a dolley parked as if forgotten directly outside its door. Just beyond, a service elevator sat with open doors, as if waiting for a caterer with a load of dirty trays—only it was blissfully empty at the moment.

My chest was heaving when I flew into the steel cab, frantic the doors might close at any moment. Though I was nearly blind with tears, I stabbed shaking fingers at the button to engage the doors, a sob of relief escaping my lips as they slid shut. My entire body was shaking, my head so full of pressure I thought it might burst. I couldn't help sinking to the floor as the tears overwhelmed me, my knees curled to my chest, unable to catch my breath.

My hands were fists in my eyes, doubtlessly ruining the make up Alice had sparingly applied only a few hours earlier, my mind spinning as if caught in some demented amusement park ride. I didn't want to hope…but in admitting to myself that I actually wanted him, I knew there was part of me that wanted him to _do_ something…to apologize, to explain, to beg on his knees…something that would allow me to nurse those desires again…Even after everything he'd done…and yet…the image of him surrounded by sophisticated women in gowns the color of exotic flowers reminded me just how ridiculous my hopes were…Despairing sobs burned in my chest, my muscles unable to lock the cries inside. I pushed a fist against my lips as I vainly tried to staunch the tears, shaking on the floor of the elevator.

I gasped as the doors began to slide open, jerking my palms to my eyes as I clumsily tried to rear to my feet. I wasn't embarrassed so much as I was sorry for the poor caterer who had to encounter me.

The apology on my lips died as I saw Edward Masen's lithe frame appear in the growing gap between the doors, his green gaze penetrating. I couldn't imagine how I appeared, huddled like a child in the corner of an elevator at the back of the museum, rumpled and damp with tears.

Once the doors had fully opened, he held out a hand, a sad smile faintly tilting his lips as he spoke. "Do you mind if we get out of here? The last conversation we had in an elevator didn't end very well."

It took me a moment to stop staring at him with wide, shocked eyes, finally reaching out to take his hand.

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The infamous shot of Dresden: iconicphotos(dot)wordpress(dot)com/2009/07/08/dresden-destroyed/


	28. Absolution

Thank you for all of your reviews-I apologize for not being able to follow up in my usual manner. Unfortunately, I will again be unable to provide a teaser as I'm in the midst of moving; between dealing with escrow, trying to pack without stepping on my cat, and the usual 9-5, I don't want to promise something I can't deliver on. **Thank you** in advance for all of your thoughtful feedback.

The standard disclaimers apply.

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**Twenty-seven**

_Saint Eligius: with the king's consent he sent his servants through towns and villages to take down the bodies of malefactors who had been executed, and give them decent burial. Absolution presupposes on the part of the penitent contrition, confession, and promise at least of satisfaction, but Eligius prayed even for the souls of those whom contrition or confession could not be possible._

It was only after I was huddled against the door of his car, a sleek sporty two-seater the color of mercury, that the question occurred to me. "How did you know where I was?" There was no concealing the suspicious tone of my voice, my gaze sidelong as I could not bring myself to fully face him.

Edward shifted gears as we approached a hill, his pale hand and the silver cuff link at his wrist visible in the gloom of the sports car. "I asked," his voice was tired. "After I pawned the sycophants off on one of the curators, I came back to the incunabula exhibit to find you'd disappeared."

I bit my lip, unable to ask him why the _Golden Legend_ had been open to that particular page.

Edward went on, "So I asked—about the girl in the black dress with the silver shoes. There was only one way you could have gone…" He paused as we reached a red light, lifting a hand to his chin as he mused, "Maybe Emmett's skills are rubbing off on me."

I managed a weak chuckle, but instantly felt as if I were doing something wrong, my lips tight over my teeth.

"Speaking of Emmett," Edward's voice was weary again, his forearm moving between us as he shifted into first with the changing of the light. "When he realized…" Edward paused and I lifted my gaze from where it had been fixed on my tensed hands, surprised at the emotion in his voice. He sounded so…sad, and full of regret, and pained…all at once. "He realized that having you and Dr. Whitlock followed had not been entirely about the book."

The air in my lungs felt suspended, my eyes wide, unable to shift my gaze from his profile. He went on, "Emmett and I have known each other since we were undergrads. He's my employee but he's also my advisor—my friend." The words came out in a rush of breath, his expression tensed, as if waiting for a blow. "When he realized I'd had other motives, he essentially told me he would quit if I bothered you again without your consent."

"So even if I hadn't destroyed my phone, you would have stopped calling."

It was Edward's turn to look at me with wide eyes, the green of his gaze lost in the darkness of the car. "You destroyed your phone?"

"In the garbage disposal," I replied, attempting to sound light. Edward laughed as I intended him to, and I felt my heart stutter at rediscovering the joy of being able to lighten his mood.

"Yes," he finally replied. "I stopped calling."

"But you had to get my attention somehow," I attempted to finish his thought, trying to understand what the exhibit meant. If not an apology…if not atonement…then what?

"I had to leave you alone," he responded. "Emmett made me see…how inappropriate I'd been."

"Inappropriate?" I whispered, trying to make sense of what he was saying. I had accused him of stalking me but at the time I had assumed, and clearly so had he, that he was motivated entirely by the book. It felt impossible to think there could have been other reasons.

We had circled a block dominated by a glass tower, the sports car darting down an alley and sinking into the garage beneath the building. Edward didn't respond, the echo of the engine's purr within the underground space reverberating in my ears before we slid into a spot near an elevator bank.

I couldn't move, uncertain of what the discussion would bring, frozen at the thought of this evening being the termination of all of our interactions. Edward seemed to sense my hesitancy, pausing in his seat. His voice was soft when he spoke, "I can take you home."

I found my voice, the word rough as it burst from my lips. "No." My gaze remained fixed on my lap as he swung out of the car and rounded to my door, opening it wide.

I could sense his hand hovering near my back as he guided me towards the elevator bank; my hands were fists clenched before me, dreading and anticipating his touch. I didn't know whether I was relieved or unhappy when it didn't come.

He pulled a card from his pocket and swiped it before a sensor set beneath the buttons for each floor. I was silent as we sped towards the upper reaches of the building, my gaze uncomfortably fixed on the rising numbers.

I was somehow unsurprised when we reached the penthouse level, the elevator doors sliding open upon an entrance hall whose white marble floors nearly glowed. As we moved towards a living area, motion sensors detected our presence and overhead lights switched on, illuminating a huge space surrounded by glass.

The city circled around, the lights of downtown's skyscrapers like stars against the broader darkness. Street lights created uniform rows indicating avenues far below, abruptly stopping where the water of Elliott Bay and the Puget Sound began. Scattered pulses of light, slowly blinking on and off, indicated cargo ships and ferries crossing the black water. There was no moon, the heavy clouds obscuring what faint glow it might have provided.

My focus was only able to shift when Edward passed me, entering the living area, his fingers impatiently tugging at his tie. Plush sofas, armchairs and chaises the color of pearls were scattered over a pale gray carpet. A few tables topped in glass were colorless accents, a sheaf of mail piled on one, a vase of flowers blossoming on another. I felt my hands beginning to shake again as the soles of my shoes met the rich pile of the carpet, realizing just how much I didn't belong in his world.

Edward turned after tossing his tie onto one of the armchairs, his expression resigned. "I'm giving the _Golden Legend_ to the university."

It was as if a bandage had been ripped from a wound. The breath I didn't realize I'd been holding whooshed from my lungs, tears filling my eyes so suddenly that I couldn't hold them back. "What do you want from me? !" I cried, lifting my hands to my face, shoulders hunching defensively. I hated myself for my inability to maintain any control around him.

"Bella—"

My name on his lips only shook me further, my knees weakening at the tenderness in his voice. "You don't have to make this up to me!" I realized I was begging, choking on tears. I sensed him approaching, his steps muted by the carpet.

His arm circled my shoulders as he quietly spoke, "That's not what this is about. Don't you understand?" I didn't resist the pressure of his touch, allowing him to guide me towards one of the angled chaises, sinking to the cushion as my knees gave out. I heard Edward move away followed by the shuck and slam of drawers opening and closing. Soon, tissues were being folded into my hands, his fingers cool against my skin. I struggled to swallow my tears, trying to regain control of myself, angry that he could have such an impact on me.

When I'd managed to blot away the tears and lift my head, my gaze found him with his back to me, facing the cityscape, his posture stiff. He didn't turn to address me when he spoke, but I could imagine his expression, his voice hard. "The only reason Emmett didn't quit right away was that he believed me when I said I didn't realize I'd had other motivations."

I shook my head, angrily wiping at the tears. "What do you mean?" He spoke in such riddles—why couldn't he be straightforward?

Edward turned, his gaze desperate. "I—I owe you an apology. No," he paused, his lips thinning. "I owe you much, much more than that. I told myself—it was about the book. Then, that night…"

Blood rushed to my cheeks, the heat like a fire. "Please," I protested. "Don't say these things. Don't say things—to make me feel better." My shoulders trembled as fresh tears threatened. I steeled myself, trying to maintain control. "I couldn't bear it if you—"

Edward interrupted my panicked rambling. "Please." The word was soft, a plea, but it silenced me. The intensity of his gaze took my breath away, his eyes fixed on my face as though there was nothing else in the room, in the world. I dropped my eyes to my lap, unable to return his gaze, unwilling to see his expression when he finally decided he'd absolved himself and could be done with me.

"That night," Edward went on despite the roses I knew were blooming in my cheeks. "I started to realize the book—it was secondary. But...what if that wasn't the case for you?" The uncertainty in his voice indicated he was being honest but I couldn't lift my gaze to verify the impression. "I'd been telling myself I was only keeping tabs on you, making sure you and Dr. Whitlock didn't pull ahead—" He paused and it felt as if all of the air had been sucked from the room, the tension palpable. Edward's next words came upon an exhaled breath, as if the admission took all of his strength. "But I was fooling myself. I couldn't stay away from you. But what if you'd simply turned the tables on me?"

My head rose, my brow furrowed with confusion. "What do you mean?"

Edward's voice was bitter when he answered, "I was at your mercy, spending the night with you. I had to know—was the book more important to you?"

It was finally starting to become clear, my brow smoothing as the blood drained from my face. "You were testing me." The words were but a whisper, Edward's features equally pale as he forced himself to meet my gaze.

"It's unforgivable." He sounded so certain, his voice resigned. His gaze darted away as he went on, his hands drifting into his pockets and then through his hair, restless, fidgeting. "I'm not—I know—it's crazy. I wasn't thinking straight—but we'd spent the night together." Edward sucked in a breath as if to center himself. "When you showed up at the chapel, I thought that settled it—that you wanted the book more than you wanted me."

If I hadn't been sitting, I would have passed out, my vision briefly narrowing to a pinpoint. My hands trembled in my lap, my throat so tight I couldn't swallow the knot that had formed there.

Edward ran his hands through his hair again, tousling the burnished locks even further. His voice was angry when he spoke, his eyes darting around the room. "I mean, did you see those women tonight? !"

Tears assaulted my eyes, my gaze dropping as I weakly choked out, "Yes. And I'm nothing like them."

"You say that like it's a bad thing!" The astonishment in Edward's voice halted the pricking of tears, my gaze darting up to meet his. He inhaled deeply at my equally surprised expression. "Let me try to—let me try to explain."

It was strange to see him so inarticulate, the words starting and stopping as if jerked from him unwillingly. The luxurious apartment seemed the wrong setting for the tormented pacing of the man before me, his collar askew after having wrenched off his tie, his gaze scattered as he searched for the words to capture his meaning.

"I had a trustee—a business partner of my father's—and he tried to—" Edward stopped, turning on his heel. "I mean, I was only seventeen when they died and I had no idea about money—how other people saw it, what it _meant_." I frowned, trying to understand these tangents, knowing somehow this was more critical than anything. "And I was at college around all these people who were older—I should have known better. I should have realized—" He stopped his pacing, groaning as he thrust his hands into his hair in frustration.

"Realized what?" I asked softly.

Edward's eyes lifted to mine, the torment in his gaze wrenching my heart from my chest. "How people could be." His voice was sharp but I knew it wasn't directed at me. "What they could _do_."

I resisted the urge to rise from the edge of the chaise, my fingers twitching in my lap, fighting the desire to go to him. I spoke again, my voice still soft, "What did they do?"

Edward didn't respond at first, his head tilting back as he looked up at the ceiling, his arms tightly crossed before his chest. When he spoke, the words were flat, his voice emotionless. "Kate and I met my sophomore year of college. I was eighteen—she was a year older. We talked about getting married one day and living in the suburbs of Chicago with our two point five children." His voice was wry but I felt no urge to laugh. "We'd been together for more than a year when she told me she was pregnant."

I stopped breathing, my blood like ice in my veins. Edward continued, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling. "Kate said she would get rid of it if that was what I wanted—I told her it was her choice and that I would support her." He inhaled, his eyes fixed on some inner point, unmoving from the ceiling. "She decided to keep it and I tried to accept that my life was going to irrevocably change. I opened an account for her and began setting money aside from my allowance to try to prepare for the inevitable."

He paused again, as if too pained by the memories, but when he continued, his voice was just as dead as when he'd begun. "Kate's roommate told me she had never stopped getting her periods, that she was lying to me. I didn't believe her at first—they'd argued and I would never have thought Kate was capable of such deception. Only after Kate broke up with me and the account was drained did I believe her."

Edward's chin finally dropped, his gaze finding mine. "She didn't need the money. Her parents were paying for college—she hadn't even taken out loans. It was just…greed." I couldn't speak to respond, too shocked to form words, unable to imagine being capable of such a thing.

Edward's gaze fell to his shoes, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I met people who would warm to me so suddenly, people I thought were my friends. Then the pitch would come—a tech start up, a boutique, a non-profit aimed at rehabilitating criminals. When I would explain that my money was in a trust and I had no way of getting my hands on large sums, they would vanish as suddenly as they'd appeared." He sighed, a resigned sound that was inutterably tired.

"By the time I was in grad school, I'd…given up. I would go on a date and find myself getting sold a concept over dinner. It was just…pointless. I slowly became closed off and ultimately decided it was best to judge people I didn't know with suspicion."

A sudden thought occurred to me. "The background checks," I blurted before I realized the words had found their way from my brain to my mouth.

Edward's head lifted, a half-smile twisting his lips humorlessly. "Exactly." He paused, considering me. "I even stopped relying on anyone for condoms after finding the ones a casual partner stocked had been tampered with."

My face paled, the filter between my mind and lips failing again. "But we didn't use…"

Edward's gaze cut away, shoving his hands in his pockets uncomfortably. "I know."

"But I'm not—" I tried to start but he cut me off.

"I wasn't thinking with you. I wasn't worried with you." He turned to the windows again, the muscle in his jaw jumping, his hands twitching in his pockets. "At the auction you were, at best, oblivious to me. At worst, you appeared to loathe me. I'd never been more amused or annoyed—no one has ever gotten to me like that." He paused and when he resumed speaking, his voice had softened. "I researched you."

I frowned, unable to stop myself from asking, "Before Prague?"

He nodded silently, his pale face dimly reflected in the glass before him. "I told myself it was professional curiosity...but what I was really doing was trying to find the flaw." He paused again but I couldn't speak, simply trying to understand. "I wanted to find…a messy divorce where you'd taken your ex to the cleaners. A half dozen failed start-ups. Rehab—anything. But the more I searched, the more frustrated I became. You led this quiet life having followed this very focused path through college to your curatorship—with an equally quiet family."

Edward's voice grew so soft that I nearly didn't hear his next words. "You couldn't be real."

Then, more briskly, "In Prague, I told myself it was about staying informed—then it was about making sure Viktoriya kept her distance...then, the night I found you being pursued by those criminals, I realized the book didn't even matter anymore." He stopped, his voice having grown harsher. Taking a deep breath, he continued more calmly, "But did you feel the same way? It was stupid—unforgiveable—but I thought I could force your hand, put you in a situation where you would have to choose."

I couldn't bear it. "But I'd already chosen!" I cried, the words bursting from my lips. "The moment I kissed you, I'd chosen!"

Edward turned, surprise evident in his wide, disbelieving eyes. "I kissed you."

I bit my lip, frowning at him. "And you thought I was just putting up with it?"

His mouth opened and closed, unable to respond for several heartbeats. Only when his eyes had fallen to the floor was he able to speak, his voice firm, "I know it was stupid now, that I was acting with the presupposition that you had the same motives as the people I encountered in my youth." He exhaled. "The minute I saw your face in the catacomb, I knew I'd made the biggest mistake—I thought I'd caught you, that you were only there for the _Golden Legend_. But the devastation on your face..."

My voice broke on an unexpected sob. "I couldn't believe how foolish I'd been—letting you use me." I shook my head, trying to blink back the tears. "I'm the smart girl—not the pretty girl. And I'd never behaved so stupidly in my life."

Edward had lifted his head again, slowly approaching me as if he couldn't help himself. "Don't you see how beautiful you are?"

I shook my head again, choking back tears. Edward sank into the cushion at my side but hesitated, his hands lost as they hovered near my own before finally settling in his lap. "I'll never forgive myself. I knew instantly that I'd made the biggest mistake...but I'd dug myself in so deep, having you followed...and the only excuse I had to approach you in the first place was that a woman I'd slept with was stalking you! It's not as if I could just ask you out for coffee..." He was silent for a long moment. "And I could barely admit it to myself—that it wasn't just about the book, or about protecting you. And before I could track you down, Jasper was attacked."

"That wasn't your fault," I sniffed, swiping at the tears that had escaped my eyes. "If I'd said something, if I hadn't been so secretive—"

Edward cut me off, his voice firm. "I take full responsibilty for what happened." His hands had curled into fists in his lap, his gaze fixed on the white, straining knuckles. "By then, Emmett had started to put two and two together—that my motivations were…blurred at best."

"And he nailed you for it," I chuckled, the sound damp but genuinely amused.

Edward tilted his chin, hesitantly examining my face, clearly bemused that I found any element of this funny. "So I left you alone, hoping…knowing it was the longest shot in the world…that you might somehow give me a second chance." He inhaled sharply. "When you came to my office, I was so full of anticipation…but you only asked me about the book—"

"And how you knew where I was!" I protested, twisting on the cushion to face him. "Do you even understand how crazy that made me feel? I thought I was losing my mind!"

Edward sighed, his head drooping. "I have no right—to even know you. When I realized that your questions were regarding the book, I knew that I'd blown it." It was my turn to inhale, listening as he berated himself. "I made so many excuses. You were a rival—not a love interest so anything I did was justified. But the entire time I was—"

I couldn't help interrupting. "Love interest?"

Edward paled, his gaze jerking to mine. "I have—I have no right to pursue you—

I shook my head, my voice wry. "I'm not game, Edward." A frown of confusion furrowed his brow so I elaborated "A doe you chase in the forest."

Edward shook his head, his gaze falling. "At my office, even if your focus hadn't been the book…you hated me and you had every right to hate me." He paused, inhaling deeply. "I can't forgive myself. How can I expect you to?"

It was then that I knew that my forgiveness had already been granted—perhaps from the moment I'd seen the _Golden Legend_ opened to Saint Hugh and the swan of Stowe. I lifted my hand, slowly reaching across the brief space between us to grasp his. His fist slowly loosened beneath my touch, the color coming back to the skin, his fingers widening to allow mine to interlace with his. We sat there for a long moment, not speaking, not moving, simply holding hands.

It was some time before either one of us spoke, my voice small, blushing at the implication of my suggestion. "Can we…maybe go to my place?"

Edward shifted to meet my gaze, his fingers wrapping more firmly around my own despite the confusion in his eyes. I squirmed my gaze dropping. "I just—can't relax in your CEO penthouse."

His green eyes cleared, an amused smile curling his lips. "CFO."

"Whatever."

Edward laughed out loud, the sound filled with much more than amusement. There was happiness and warmth there, and, most significantly of all, relief.

He stood, drawing me to my feet. "Whatever you want, Bella."


	29. Reconciliation

**Disclaimer**: The plot is mine. The charactes are S. Meyers.

Thank you for all of your reviews in the absence of teasers, especially anais mark, AquariumJenn, and tbar. You all rock more than you know. Oh! I'm also over at A Different Forest now, though my spotty internet service at the new place means I don't post as often as I'd like. Will hopefully have that fixed soon...

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**Twenty-eight**

_Council of Constance: the Great Schism divided the church, two men simultaneously claiming to be the true pope. There had been antipopes, or rival claimants to the papacy before, but most of them had been appointed by rival factions. In this case, a single group of leaders of the Church had created both the pope and the antipope. The conflict quickly escalated from a church problem to a diplomatic crisis that divided Europe. It was only at the Council of Constance in 1414 that the resignation of John XXIII was secured and Urban VI succeeded Pope Gregory XII, thus ensuring the legitimacy of the Roman line and reuniting the church._

The apartment was dark and I realized, though I didn't have a watch or cell phone, that only a short time had passed since I'd arrived in Seattle. Alice and Jasper were likely still at the exhibit, which filled me with a sudden worried thought as I reached for the key Alice usually stowed beneath the letter boxes. "Won't people be concerned that you're gone?"

Edward's smile was rueful, amusement sparkling in his gaze. "It's my exhibit—so it's up to me if I want to ditch it for something more important."

A confused blush suffused my cheeks at his words, ducking my head as I fumbled with the lock. We were soon inside, my hand instinctively reaching for the light, my blush deepening as I took in the modest space with new eyes. The Ikea sofa, coffee table covered with Alice's design magazines, and simply framed photographs along the walls seemed almost collegiate after his rarefied penthouse. I forced my gaze to meet Edward's, self conscious and defiant all at once. But his expression was passive, lacking any judgment, his green eyes perplexed as he turned to me. "I thought you'd have more books."

A soft, surprised laugh escaped my lips, my hand lifting to my mouth to cover the smile there. Edward reached for my fingers, his voice earnest as he tugged my hand away. "Don't do that."

My gaze darted to the carpet beneath our feet. "It's habit," I admitted, thinking of the many times in Europe that I'd tried to stifle my enjoyment of his company.

"Is it—" he began, hesitating as his hand fell away. "Is it a habit you can break?" There was a great deal contained in that question, much more than my ability to let myself laugh in his presence. I couldn't help lifting a hand to his chest, suddenly longing for him to raise his gaze and meet my eyes. The buttons of his shirt were hard beneath my fingers, his warmth tangible even with the layer of fabric between our skin.

When his green eyes finally found mine, I spoke honestly. "I want to." I tried to smile but it was as uncertain as his gaze, my hand faltering. He caught it before it could return to my side, his expression subtly shifting from reluctant questioning to willful determination.

I ducked my head, another blush rushing to my cheeks at the intensity of his gaze. "We should…" I frowned, looking around the room.

"Yes?" he asked, ever solicitous, sensing my trepidation.

"I just don't know when Alice will be back—and there's no way we'll be able to talk if she's…I mean, I love her but if she comes in—she won't drop kick you or anything—but, well…." I wasn't actually so sure of that, unable to meet his eyes, my gaze dropping to our joined hands. Perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea to bring him here, my lip caught between my teeth as I looked about the living room for a solution.

"Can we talk in your room?"

"Yes!" That struck me as an excellent suggestion, my head darting up to meet his pleased gaze. I led the way, gently pulling him down the dark corridor and to the doorway—then abruptly halting. A street light beyond the window faintly illuminated the sparse furnishings: the futon close to the floor, the night stand I'd stolen from Charlie's house when I moved to Seattle permanently for college, the book shelf bowing beneath its cargo in the far corner, and the small desk littered with papers to the right of the window. There was one chair…and the bed.

Seeing my dismay, Edward offered, "I can sit at your desk."

"Okay…" The word was drawn out, my reluctance apparent. I tried to hide my confusion and the blooming heat in my cheeks as I moved to switch on the bed side light, turning as Edward did the same with the battered brass library lamp that sat on the desk. It had followed me through college, just like my lumpy futon.

I couldn't help smiling at the sight of his lanky figure folded into the small chair, the pool of yellow light warm upon his masculine features. Still clad in his black suit but for the tie he'd torn off back at his penthouse, he looked completely out of place in the casual space…but for the pleased smile curving his lips. I felt a dart of suspicion in seeing his expression, wondering at his intentions, wondering at his honesty. But his smile was so simple…without a hint of the sneer that would have turned it into a smirk….and I quickly realized it indicated nothing other than his genuine pleasure to be in my silly little bedroom.

Chewing my lip, I lowered myself to the futon and folded my legs before me, patting at the skirt of my dress to make sure I wasn't flashing him. "You're decent," he laughed softly.

I blushed brighter but could only smile in return, his tone entirely lacking any mockery or reproof. "It's strange, isn't it?" I wasn't sure my question made sense but couldn't think how to elaborate. I shouldn't have worried.

"Yes," he answered simply. "I'd largely given up on ever being in this position."

I couldn't respond in seriousness. "In my pokey room," I grinned at him, "Watching me try to make sure my underwear isn't showing?"

He grinned back but the sincerity in his gaze was overpowering. "It's all I hoped for and more."

I looked away, the blood that had begun to subside from my face rushing back, warming my throat and ears. "It's nothing special," I muttered, not really intending for him to hear.

"On the contrary," Edward's voice was clear, refusing to ignore my comment. "It tells me much about you, more than you might think."

I couldn't help looking up, my head tilted as I watched him turn his gaze to the room, slowly taking in his surroundings with a passive expression that I knew concealed a frightening, observant intelligence. "You have few close relationships but they are of vast importance to you."

My lips parted but before I could whisper a question, he elaborated. "No corkboard covered in photos from parties and happy hours, or a more adult interpretation with framed versions on the walls or any available surface. Only three photos in the entire room: your mother, your father, and Alice."

I didn't want him to be right. "Maybe I haven't had time to print up photos," I protested, stubbornly trying to deny his observations despite their accuracy.

"But this space is neat enough to indicate that you have time to spare," Edward argued mildly, a faint frown crossing his brow. "Though I see enough dust to intimate you aren't obsessive compulsive."

I couldn't help bristling, "I've been out of town." My gaze darted around the room, trying to think when I'd last cleaned, suddenly self-conscious.

Edward shook his head at my ongoing denials. "And the bed isn't made and I can see in the gap of the closet opening that there are clothes on the floor."

I sputtered, trying to argue but he went on before I could defend myself. "It's of no consequence. If I were hiring you to be my maid, I might care about your personal habits, but even then, it probably wouldn't matter."

My lips thinned, pushing down my irritation with his high-handed presumptions—even if they were correct, it was unpleasant to feel like a small creature caught beneath a microscope. "And what does your space say about you, Edward?" I shot back, unthinking. "Your lofty tower above everything?"

There was a long, awkward silence, Edward regarding me with a troubled expression, his green gaze confused. When he spoke, his tone held a degree of defeat that immediately filled me with remorse. "I had no desire to put you on the defensive, Bella." He lowered his head. "I believe my space unforgivingly reveals a lack of personal investment in anything. It could be anyone's home, a realtor's dream, bland and lacking any inner life."

"Edward," I protested, my anger gone as suddenly as it had come. I scooted down the mattress, approaching the edge of the bed and reaching for his hand. He looked up, a dart of surprise crossing his features. "I'm sorry."

His gaze fell again but he didn't release my hand, his fingers firm about my own. "So am I," he exhaled. "I didn't mean…to make you angry. Clearly I'm out of practice with conversations that aren't about work…or books." He paused, his grip briefly tightening. "It's only…it's only that your home reflects what I already thought of you…" his voice dropped, almost too quiet to hear. "What I hoped."

My hand squeezed over his own, forcing him to meet my gaze. "You don't worry that perhaps you're seeing what you want to see?" It was impossible to believe that me, or my room with its college student furnishings, piles of books, and vague messiness could be what he'd _hoped_.

Edward only shook his head in response, his gaze again dropping from mine. "You don't care about material things," his voice was quiet but utterly insistent, brooking no argument. "Perhaps it's sentiment that prevents you from parting with possessions but I think it's also because at least partly it doesn't matter to you."

I couldn't deny this conclusion. "No," I allowed, still holding his hand. I knew the pose must be awkward for him, reaching down to me on the low bed, inclined slightly forward in the desk chair—but he still made no move to release his grasp, his fingers tight around my own. "It doesn't matter."

Several minutes passed in which neither one of us spoke, the warmth of his hand seeming to radiate up my arm, my gaze fixed on his downturned face. When I broke the silence, my curiosity was evident in my tone. "Why Saint Hugh?"

Edward's head darted up, his green eyes startled as his gaze met mine. "For you," he replied, his surprise indicating he thought this should be obvious.

I nodded but held him with my eyes, wanting more. "The swan…and my last name."

"And—and," Edward started, a frown flitting across his brow as he struggled for words. It was no less surprising to witness than when he had stopped and started earlier in the evening; I marveled that it was me, the person who had fled in hysterics from the catacomb, that was now putting him at a loss. "I know," he began again, taking a deep breath, "that I'm no saint. But the hagiography struck me as…as uncanny."

"But the swan watches over him," I softly interrupted. Given how Edward had tried to protect me during everything that had taken place in Europe, my confusion couldn't seem so unwarranted. I'd hardly acted as his savior.

Edward's hand loosened on my own but he didn't let go, stroking my palm with the pad of his thumb. "I can't help but think…" he paused, his lips momentarily thinning as if frustrated by his inability to find the right words. He started again, "In an era not known for anthropomorphizing animals as we do now, for not romanticizing them—they were game or tools, nothing more—that in such a time the swan and Saint Hugh…they must have watched over each other."

The tears that pricked my eyes were as sudden as a gunshot, my lids fluttering as I tried to blink them back. I attempted to free my hand as they threatened to fall, wanting to brush them away. Edward refused to release me, easing off the chair with the tugging motion of my hand and taking a seat at my side. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to hide my face in his throat, letting the tears come.

Edward folded me to his chest, his hands stroking my hair, the exposed skin at my shoulder, murmuring soothing words that I couldn't quite make out. It was some time before I recovered myself, my tears subsiding into sniffles, his collar damp beneath my cheek. I reared away from him but only to wipe at my eyes, unable to restrain my chuckle at his affronted expression. "Let me just go blow my nose," I explained, trying to smile.

Edward attempted to smile in return but I could still see the worry in his gaze. When I returned from the bathroom, I found him awkwardly standing at the foot of the bed, his hair somehow even wilder than when I'd left. I understood his concern; it was the same feeling that was burning in the pit of my belly, the belief that this couldn't quite be real, the worry that he would somehow come to his senses and take it all back, the denial of this moment.

I fought that feeling as I took his hand, tugging him back down to the bed, pushing my weight into his side until he reclined against the pillows, his long legs extended in front of him. I shifted until I was nestled against his side, my shoulder tucked into his armpit, my lips inches from his throat.

"When did you decide to do the exhibit?" My voice was quiet but he heard me with no difficulty, the apartment silent but for the intermittent rumble of a car on the street outside.

"Almost immediately." I stirred against Edward's side, disbelieving. He rescinded, sensing my doubt. "Maybe not consciously. But I knew I had to do something." He paused. "I knew immediately I'd made a huge mistake—and that I had to fix it." My fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, an unconscious movement, thinking back to those painful hours.

I couldn't resist asking for more though—more knowledge, more details—trying to fill in the gaps of what had happened. "How did you think I would react?" I tried to restrain any degree of challenge from the question, unwilling to make him feel any more guilt.

"I honestly don't know," he answered, his voice strained. "I hadn't thought far enough ahead—if I was thinking at all." He inhaled, then mused, "Angry, perhaps? Grudgingly conceding defeat? I told myself… your reaction wouldn't have anything to do with me. Except—"

I bit my lip, my fingers having tightened to the point that they'd formed a fist. "You called my name," I murmured, remembering.

I felt him nod, his head shifting against the pillow beneath him. "I don't know what I would have said—I just wanted you to come back. I wanted to take it back. I wanted to keep you from hating me."

"I never hated you," I whispered. His shoulders rose from the mattress as if trying to see my face but I tucked my chin down, unwilling to meet his eyes. "I wanted to. But I think all of my anger was really directed at myself. For being so stupid. For letting you get to me."

"Bella," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

I shook my head. "Edward, don't be. I don't know what I would have said had you been able to stop me. I couldn't admit how I was really feeling until…until tonight, really." My sigh trembled as it emerged from my chest. "I've been so stubborn."

"With good reason," Edward replied, his hand resuming its gentle caress of my shoulder. "The minute I got back to my hotel and had a minute to think, I realized what a complete mess I'd made of things—and I tried to call you."

"Did you have my number all along?"

"Yes," I felt him nod again. "It's usually provided with the report Emmett submits with his background check."

I exhaled noisily against the crisp fabric of his shirt, unwilling to hide my exasperation with his invasiveness—whatever had happened to him in the past. Edward tensed, sensing my displeasure. I loosened my hand, trying to relax, trying to put it all behind me—I knew we couldn't move forward unless I did. And I so wanted to move forward with him.

Edward continued speaking, as if trying to change the subject. "First I just wanted to…to hear your voice. To try to get a sense of what was going through your head." I breathed steadily, remembering those miserable, sleepless hours at the airport. "Then, hours later, I learned Viktoriya had attacked Dr. Whitlock." I couldn't help shivering, thinking of my blissful ignorance at the time. "I left Dr. Banner to manage the recovery of the books while Emmett and I jetted off to Prague."

"You flew?" I gasped, trying to recall if there was an airport in the small town.

"No," Edward chuckled. "We might as well have, though. I think I did ninety the entire way." I frowned, aware of his reckless driving habits. "I think that's when Emmett first began to put two and two together."

"What do you mean?"

"I suppose he could have attributed my concern to the fact that I felt responsible for Viktoriya's behavior. But I was…like a madman, just…desperate to get to Prague." Edward's hand flattened against my shoulder, reflexively pulling me closer. "Because I knew…if anything could drive you further away from me, it was my part in what happened to Dr. Whitlock."

"Edward," I sat up, lifting my head from his shoulder to meet his eyes. "No one could have predicted what she did. Jasper told me she'd never exhibited that kind of behavior before."

Edward's expression was sad but gentle, a small smile crossing his lips at my insistence. He chose not to argue with me but I could see he didn't agree, the soft pressure of his hand returning me to my former position, resting against his chest. "Jasper…" he began, his voice a soft rumble in my ear. "Jasper gave me what little insight I could allow myself—"

"Since you weren't tracking me with your inappropriate methods any longer," I teased, tapping his chest with my finger.

"Exactly," Edward agreed, his voice wry.

"What did he tell you?" I asked, curious.

"That you were on sabbatical and had gone to live with your father. It gave me hope—"

"My pathetic funk gave you hope? !" I exclaimed, lifting my head again.

Edward regarded me steadily. "It gave me hope that you weren't going on with your life as if nothing had happened. It gave me hope to think that you might be as affected as me."

I lowered my head, softly admitting, "I was."

Silence descended but it was comfortable, consoling, his fingers tracing patterns in the soft skin of my shoulder, his chest rising and falling in time with my own. Another thought occurred to me, my voice breaking the quiet. "Did you speak with Alice?"

I felt him shake his head, momentarily wondering how messy his hair would be when we finally rose. "Not before tonight. Dr. Whitlock introduced me. She seems like…a powerhouse."

"She is," I chuckled. I didn't think he'd had any part in my veritable kidnapping, especially not after he'd admitted to promising Emmett to leave me alone. It made Emmett's involvement in the whole ambush all the more intriguing. "You said you knew Emmett in college?"

Edward nodded. "Roommates sophomore year. I couldn't…" he paused, the strain in his voice so slight I might not have noticed but for his hesitation. "I didn't want to live at home anymore…after the accident. Emmett was a year older than me, but a freshman."

"Because you started early," I clarified, remembering my internet searches.

"Right. He never treated me differently. If anything, he teased me for being such an overachiever." I could hear the smile in his voice and felt a sudden surge of warmth for the roommate that had provided Edward with some normalcy.

Edward went on. "He's the youngest of five boys so getting into trouble was very much the norm for him. With him, I went to terrible keggers and frat parties, and started to have this typical collegiate experience."

"Until you met someone," I whispered.

Edward's laugh was faintly bitter. "Emmett never liked Kate but he didn't admit it until after everything was over…which was probably for the best. I wouldn't have listened to him."

"You were in love," I softly allowed. "No one listens when they're in love." Or so I'd learned watching my mom swing from boyfriend to boyfriend until Phil came along. "Did he go to the business school, too?" I asked, trying to change the topic.

"For the first year," Edward sighed. "We'd gotten an apartment together near campus. I'd largely given up on normalcy but Emmett badgered me into rooming together. 'Like any other student,' he'd said." Edward inhaled. "All of Emmett's brothers are in…enforcement of some sort back in Tennessee. The eldest is a firefighter, another is a sheriff—"

"Emmett's from Tennessee?" I never would have guessed it, thinking of Alice and Jasper's drawls.

Understanding my question, Edward explained, "He dropped his accent by the fourth week of school." He laughed softly. "We'd be hungover playing video games and he would suddenly ask me, out of the blue, 'How would you say 'ice cream'?' He's an uncanny mimic."

"Hence ending up in the FBI?" I wondered, imagining mimicry would make for a good spy.

"No…that is," Edward shifted, his hand pulling me close again. "The brother closest in age to Emmett, Eli—"

"Do they all have names beginning with 'E'?" I laughed.

"Yes!" Edward exclaimed, making me laugh harder. "Earl's the eldest, then…Erwin is next, I think. They call him 'Win,' though, from what Emmett's told me. Then Ellis, and Elijah. All such old-fashioned names—"

"You're one to talk," I laughed again, unable to resist teasing him.

"It's hardly the same," he protested. "My name is perfectly—"

"Fuddy duddy," I interrupted, planting a kiss on his jaw. Edward simply sighed and I could almost feel him roll his eyes. Then, returning to the topic at hand I asked, "Why did you only live together that first year?"

Edward stilled, his voice quiet when he responded, "Eli was killed. A domestic violence call gone wrong."

"Oh, poor Emmett," I breathed, tears pricking my eyes.

Edward touched my hair, my back, his lips soft against my forehead. After these sweet reassurances, he went on, "It changed him. Like it changes anyone." I exhaled, thinking of Edward's parents. "He'd been avoiding the path his brothers had followed for years, the rebel, determined to be anything but a cop. When Eli died, I think he felt like…like he owed it to his brother." Edward pressed his cheek to my head. "Of course, given his qualifications, he ended up at Quantico instead."

"The FBI," I whispered. I felt him nod, the stubble of his cheek rough against my hair.

"We lost touch for a time—and I still have no idea what he was up to."

"That makes sense," I allowed, thinking Emmett's acquisition of Russian must have been related to his work for the government.

"When he contacted me, he wasn't looking for work—he only wanted to catch up. But when I realized his expertise…and given my position at Whittier-Veill—"

"Not to mention you could trust him," I added.

"Exactly," Edward whispered. "It wasn't hard to convince him. I think he'd become jaded with his work, though he never explained the details—he probably couldn't if he wanted to." I couldn't help wondering if he and Rozalina were still butting heads at the exhibit.

I sighed, inhaling the slightly sweet but completely masculine scent of Edward's shirt, its crispness long lost to all it had been subjected to over the previous hours. He turned on the mattress, slowly, as if allowing me time to stop him, until he was on his side, facing me. Green eyes found mine, a hint of uncertainty still haunting their depths, drinking in my features as though he'd never see me again.

"Edward," I murmured, reaching up to touch his face. His hand mimicked my own, finding my cheek, smoothing my brow. His lips soon followed, gently whispering across my chin, my eyes, the tip of my nose.

"Bella," he replied, the word reverent. I pressed my hand to his cheek, wanting to hold on to this moment forever, wishing I could bend the laws of physics to make time cease moving forward. My weariness was unfortunately making itself felt, on edge and tense from the moment I'd suspected I was being followed two days ago, my muscles finally loosening now that the world was righted. I felt my lids struggling to drift shut and fought against them, certain that if I fell asleep, I'd awake back in Forks with this entire night a bittersweet dream.

"Edward," I whispered again, my hands drifting to his jacket, tightening upon his lapels. As if, by falling asleep, I'd be physically falling away from him, my only anchor.

"Shh," he answered, stroking my hair. "I'm here."

The room was hazy and gray when I awoke, the zipper of my dress digging into my side, bobby pins pricking my scalp. I reached out without conscious thought, a satisfied sigh escaping my lips as I found it wasn't a dream, Edward's warm body gently breathing next to mine. "Awake?" he asked needlessly, a hand lifting to the tangle of my hair.

"Did you sleep?" I mumbled, my mouth dry. I wondered, suddenly self-conscious, if I'd drooled or talked in my sleep—then worried that my lumpy futon had been far too uncomfortable for him to drift off.

Sensing my growing panic, Edward's hands found my face, soothing my cheeks with gentle strokes, his lips firm upon my brow. "A little. I was too…"

My vision had cleared, his stubbled features sharpening into focus, a shy smile curving his lips. "Too?"

"Too excited," he admitted. "To be here. With you."

"Oh, Edward." I couldn't resist flinging myself at him, uncaring of my wild hair or dry mouth, wrapping my arms about his neck and pressing my lips to his jaw. "Me, too." I pulled away, finding his gaze. "I mean, not to sleep, obviously," I blushed, wondering if he'd think my feelings weren't as strong because I'd been able to conk out. "But I'm so happy you're here."

It was his turn to pull me close, his arms tight around my waist. "Bella," he breathed against my hair. "You don't know…how happy it makes me to hear that."

I would have responded, suddenly conscious of the firmness of his body against my own, the burn of his stubble against my cheek…but there was an audible commotion occurring beyond my closed bedroom door. A flurry of feet, impatient whispers, and what sounded like a struggle met my ears. Both Edward and I shifted on the futon, his gaze reluctantly focusing over my shoulder while I turned my head, trying to see in the faint light of early morning.

"Bella?" Alice's voice called from beyond the door. There were more whispers and I didn't doubt she was hushing Jasper, determined, as always, to have her way.

"Yeah?" I called back, my voice still groggy with sleep.

"I wouldn't—" She hesitated, which was very unlike Alice. "I saw the Aston Martin outside and I wouldn't interrupt…but it's Charlie."

"What? !" I cried, pulling away from Edward's arms and stumbling to my feet. I was cognizant enough to open the door only a crack, my eyes wide as I found an uncomfortable Alice in the hall, her petite figure garbed in a fluffy robe, her black hair flat on one side.

She held up her cell phone, her face pale with worry. "He says there's a Czech detective on his porch, insisting on seeing you."

"Jakub?" I whispered, my brow furrowing in confusion, unable to understand.

Alice pushed the phone at me. "He says you're in danger."


	30. Forks Part Two

All of the usual disclaimers apply. Thank you so much for your reviews and feedback.

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**Twenty-nine**

_Pandemonium__: a name invented by John Milton in Paradise Lost (1667). It stems from the Greek παν meaning 'all' or 'every,' and δαιμόνιον meaning 'demon;' it thus roughly translates as 'all demons' or can be interpreted as Παν-δαιμον-ειον, 'all-demon-place.' Milton used it to refer to the capital of Hell. "A solemn council forthwith to be held/ At Pandaemonium, the high capital/ Of Satan and his peers." By transferrence, __Pandemonium__ is used to refer to Hell itself as well. These versions, usually with an initial capital, are found outside of Milton. From Frankenstein: "...as exquisite and divine a retreat as Pandemonium appeared to the demons of hell after their sufferings in the lake of fire." The demons built it in about an hour but it far surpassed all human palaces or dwellings; it may have been small, though, since the demons are described as shrinking from their titanic size in order to fit in. _

"This can't be happening."

"Emmett's on his way. Please don't worry." The firm insistence of Edward's voice was no match for the panic crawling up the inside of my rib cage, my dress suddenly too tight, my mouth filled with dust.

Charlie had at first refused to relinquish his phone to Jakub. My inability to replace perfectly functional items with new, spiffy models hadn't appeared out of the ether; Charlie's land line dated from my childhood, the curlecue of cord a stretched out tangle that would never reach the door. In order to let the detective speak to me, he'd have to let him inside—which Charlie was not at all inclined to do given the circumstances.

"It's seven in the morning on a Saturday, Bells."

"I know, Dad. I'm sorry. But I do know him—can I please speak with him?" My dad seemed unable to grasp the gravity of the situation, which was almost certainly due to his position as the chief of police. While Forks was largely a sleepy town where the majority of his duties were regarding traffic violations or vandalism, a momentous ruckus tended to erupt at least once a year that likely gave him a resigned reaction to the concept of danger. Having busted a volatile meth lab, responded to bomb threats at the high school, and broken up a drag racing ring on the reservation over the course of his career, a European detective with vague threats of danger wasn't going to make much of an impression.

Edward broke my reverie. "Do you have a change of clothes?"

"They're in Emmett's car." Propping my elbows on my knees, I couldn't help hiding my face in my hands. It was only now sinking in that Viktoriya was not in the Ukraine, that, according to Jakub, she had likely bribed an official at the border in order to fly out of a Bucharest. Because she had used her own passport, Interpol was able to confirm that she had landed at La Guardia four days ago.

My stomach sank with the realization that it might not have been only Alice stalking me in Forks.

"You should shower," Edward's voice was insistent, his hand gentle upon my nape. "He'll be here in fifteen minutes and you'll be able to change then."

"What about you?" I asked dumbly, looking up at his rumpled black suit. He had gotten on his phone the moment he'd intuited what Jakub was telling me; I'd briefly felt a twinge of remorse that Emmett was clearly not going to enjoy a real weekend but my sense of self-preservation soon usurped the feeling. I couldn't be anything but grateful that Emmett, with his professional background, was in my corner.

"I'll be fine until we get back to my place." Despite the fear and panic that had gripped my muscles from the moment I'd learned Viktoriya was in the States, a small dart of pleasure warmed my chest at Edward's use of 'we.'

It quickly died. "But what about Jasper? And Alice?" My hands fluttered anxiously, seeking something to do, some solution to seize upon. "She attacked him as a substitute for me…" My breath was coming faster, the sight of my room replaced by the image of Jasper covered in bandages, slumped in the hospital bed in Prague.

Edward dropped into a crouch, his hands on my knees, trying to calm me. "I promise you, Emmett will be thinking of all the contingencies." His palms lifted to my face, warm against my cheeks, centering me. A brief kiss landed upon my lips, a fleeting sensation. "You'll feel much better after you've showered."

I succumbed to his insistence, knowing he was partly only trying to distract me. I let him draw me to my feet and shuffled into the hall, pausing as I heard Alice and Jasper's voices behind her bedroom door; they were at a low pitch, the intensity unmistakable. I couldn't believe I'd pulled this down on their heads, my gaze falling to the floor as I ducked into the bathroom.

By the time I emerged from the shower, multiple voices had converged, the bass of Emmett's voice mixing with the others. I swiped at the condensation on the mirror, gazing hopelessly at the pale reflection there. My eyes were wide, my hair in wet tendrils around my face. Edward's presence in my life still didn't feel quite real—trying to reconcile Viktoriya's reappearance on top of everything I'd experienced over the past day felt impossible.

A knock on the door broke my trance, Alice's voice relentlessly bright. "I have your clothes!" I was surprised to see her expression betrayed none of the worry or fear I was feeling, smiling as she handed me the jeans and tee shirt. I quickly donned the items, not bothering to dry my hair beyond a quick rub with the towel.

There was a war room readiness to the people now gathered in the living area, Jasper and Emmett both at the very edge of the couch, barely sitting, while Edward stood, pacing before them; I could hear Alice in the kitchen making coffee. They all fell silent upon seeing me, the conversation coming to an abrupt halt.

Not wanting to dwell on what they might have been discussing, I burst out, "Is there any way to know where she is now?" It was one of the many questions that had swirled through my head as I stood under the spray of the shower.

No one said anything for a moment, sending a flare of disappointment through my heart; I knew, before Emmett finally spoke that the answer would not make me happy. "Though identification is required for domestic flights, they don't typically make a record of arrivals they way they do at customs." He tried to reassure me with his second point. "But I'm sure the detective's inquiry put Interpol on the alert, and they should be notifying the local law enforcement agencies—"

"You mean here in Seattle," I interrupted. I began pacing as Edward had been earlier, shaking my head at Alice's offer of a steaming mug of coffee. I was already on edge; caffeine would only make it worse.

"It's hard to know without speaking with him. Is he on his way here?" Emmett asked.

"No," I frowned. "I told him I would meet him in Forks."

"Why?" Jasper asked, confused.

"I didn't want to leave my dad alone," I cried, suddenly uncertain as to whether that was the right thing to do—uncertain of everything. Edward stepped forward, placing a calming hand on my shoulder.

"We can go down to Forks and meet with the detective. I'm sure it'll be…enlightening." My brow puckered at Edward's use of the word but I couldn't focus on that for long, my worry overtaking my curiosity.

"But what about Jasper and Alice? Shouldn't someone stay here—"

Jasper cut me off. "She won't catch me by surprise again."

"But she knows that!" I protested, spinning to face him. "What if she has a gun—it would be a lot easier to get one in this country than the Czech Republic."

Jasper eyes fell, his mouth abruptly closing, unable to argue.

"We should use men from N.E.X." The suggestion sounded like a command coming from Edward, his voice quietly authoritative.

"Who?" Alice asked.

"The security firm," Emmett explained quietly.

"Day and night?" Alice's voice was disbelieving as she sank to the sofa at Jasper's side. She still wore the robe that appeared far too big for her small frame but her hair was now pushed back from her face with an elastic headband.

"It's the only way to be safe," Emmett shook his curly head, acknowledging how crazy he knew this all sounded. "I can have someone here in thirty minutes. Then I can follow you and Bella to Forks—"

"Fuck." Edward's curse interrupted Emmett's planning, my eyes darting to him with worry and surprise. He went on before anyone could question the interjection, his gaze shifting to Emmett rather than me. "The DESC lunch—I'll have to cancel."

"The DESC?" I echoed, not understanding.

"Downtown Emergency Services Center—they serve homeless adults." He paused, "I'm supposed to be the keynote speaker today—I'm on the board."

"Edward, you can't!" The words escaped my mouth before I realized a millisecond later that I didn't want to say them out loud. I wanted him with me, keeping me safe, helping me figure out this mess. But I couldn't be so selfish, glancing towards the clock on the DVD player. It was already nine. "It's such short notice. I'll be fine on the road, and between my dad and Jakub, I'll be fine once I'm there."

Edward's expression had grown dark as he listened to me, preparing to argue. "This is an emergency."

"She's not actually _here_," I tried to scoff but knew the attempt was feeble. "New York is hours away by flight—days by car." My gaze was hard, struggling for a confidence I didn't feel. "It's a charity lunch, Edward—you can't just bail to hold my hand." I stubbornly went on though his expression had shifted into a glower. "I can take Alice's car—"

"Emmett will drive you." I felt a dart of relief that he wasn't going to abandon his obligation though his eyes betrayed inordinate frustration as he glanced at Emmett. "I'll call my assistant and have her clear my calendar—"

"But Emmett should go with you," I interrupted, frowning at him. "It's not as if she's going to ambush me on the road—if she's even here!" I tried to laugh with those final words but the sound came out slightly hysterical.

"She could be in Forks waiting for you to show up," Edward jabbed a finger towards the floor in his vehemence. "And detective or no, I'm not having you walk into that by yourself."

"Edward—" I tried again.

"Bella, I won't hear of it." I felt myself bristle at the finality in his voice, my own brow furrowing at his high-handed nature presenting itself again.

"Regardless," Emmett interjected. "I'm bringing Rozalina with us."

All eyes swung to the burly security guard perched on the sofa, the silence sudden and loud given the clamor of voices that had filled the room for the past thirty minutes. Emmett's features were stony, his brown eyes steady if slightly mutinous as he returned our collective stares. Jasper was the first to speak, giving away his brotherly attitude towards his graduate assistant, his voice shrill. "Rozalina Mihalova?"

Emmett turned to the professor, a half-smirk crossing his lips. "You know a lot of Rozalinas?"

Jasper was speechless, hazel eyes wide as he returned Emmett's steady gaze.

"Where is she now?" Edward asked, unmoved by this exchange.

"My apartment," Emmett admitted, his chin dropping as he turned his gaze to his hands.

"Can you make the call to have security here by 9:30, then collect Bella from my place no later than ten?" Emmett nodded sharply, rising to his feet as he reached for his cell phone.

"Your place?" I faintly echoed.

"I want you with me." The granite imperative of his words sent a chill through me, goose bumps flaring over my skin. My gaze was locked into his, eyes wide at the sheer intensity of his expression; fierce protectiveness mixed with something else, something I couldn't let myself identify.

Later, in his car darting through the University District towards the freeway, I realized I couldn't look at him for fear of seeing that expression again. My hands were fists in my lap, my gaze trained on the passenger side window, bottom lip caught beneath my teeth with fear, and worry, and a tornado of other emotions I refused to examine.

We were nearly to his building when he finally broke the tense silence. "What are you thinking?" His voice was quiet but betrayed his own anxiety.

"I'm afraid," I finally murmured, still turned to the window. I knew as I spoke that the words had multiple meanings; I wasn't only thinking of Viktoriya—my fear was also due to the realization that he could hurt me terribly…far more than that day in the catacomb. I knew the intensity of his feelings wasn't one-sided, that our argument about who Emmett accompanied revealed just how much he meant to me…how much I was lost to him.

Edward's hand briefly reached over, closing over my tight fist, before he was forced to return his attention to shifting gears. We were soon in the parking garage beneath his building, his arm tight around my waist as he led the way towards the elevator banks.

It was strange to see his home in the light of day. Though the sun was straining through the cloud cover, the room appeared bright with mostly windows for walls. I drifted towards the view as Edward excused himself, ducking down a corridor to presumably shower and change.

The sound of the front door opening set me on edge, spinning away from the window, my heart in my throat—before the sound of Rozalina's husky voice met my ears. My shoulders sagged with relief though adrenaline was still surging through my system.

"Bella!" she cried as she spotted me from the threshold. "I was telling to Emmett it was a mistake to take my Mace." The light smile on her lips indicated she was joking and my own huff of laughter was due more to surprise than amusement. My gaze darted between them, trying to make sense of it.

Emmett stood to her left but slightly behind, his stance protective, his gaze fixed on her figure. Rozalina's cheeks were slightly flushed and the faint smile had yet to fade from her lips. It began to sink in that she was actually happy—that she could crack a joke because she was clearly too smitten to feel anything other than giddy.

She turned to Emmett, a faint pout crossing her mouth. "You say there is food here?"

Emmett nodded, leaning forward to brush his lips across her cheek, his hand lifting to touch her shoulder. My mouth dropped at such a tender expression of affection, watching with wide eyes as he turned to the kitchen. He'd barely passed through the swinging door before I was speaking, my voice a confused whisper. "What happened?"

My surprise deepened as a faint blush suffused her cheeks, blue eyes dropping to her feet. "I did not believe he speaks Russian—I thought it was clever guess." She glanced over her shoulder, her thick braid flipping with the movement, before tugging on my hand, drawing me towards one of the sofas. As we sank into the cushion, she continued quietly, "I say to him that his mother is a cow—"

"Rozalina!" Her name was caught between a gasp and a snort, my hand flying to my lips to stifle the sound.

"And he tell to me—in Russian—that my grandmother is a…" she paused, a fine line appearing between her brows. "How say you…informer? But animal."

"A rat?" I frowned, not sure I understood.

"Yes!" Rozalina confirmed, blue eyes bright. "For example, she inform on neighbors to secret police—it is terrible thing, terrible insult." She shook her head, ice blue eyes briefly narrowing.

"What did you do?" I asked, suddenly glad I hadn't been a witness to this drama.

"I pour champagne on his head."

"Here, Roza," Emmett called as he swung back through the kitchen door, a cutting board piled with cheeses, meats, grapes and strawberries balancing in one hand, two shining forks in the other. Rozalina smiled widely at his reappearance, teeth flashing as he kicked an ottoman towards us and deposited the tray.

"Spasibo," she murmured, reaching with eager hands for the strawberries. I couldn't help marveling at their easy affection, my eyes sliding between her contented features and his adoring gaze. I couldn't question either one of them any further, though, for Edward soon followed Emmett's appearance, briskly striding into the room, his presence effortlessly commanding.

"Ms. Mihalova," he nodded to Rozalina as he reached us. She nodded back from her seated position, a small smile crossing her lips as her gaze shifted from him to me. I realized the same marveling sense of questioning was subtly reflected there, her blue eyes full of curiosity.

"You drove the Suburban?" Edward asked Emmett, seeming not to notice these silent communications.

"Of course," Emmett replied, his stance growing alert and professional as he rose to his feet.

"Please call me when you reach Forks and with any information once you've spoken with the detective."

Emmett nodded sharply, but his gesture was gentle as he extended a hand to Rozalina.

"If anything prevents you from returning to Seattle," Edward went on, glancing down to me though his words were directed at Emmett, "I'll make arrangements with N.E.X. if it becomes necessary to meet you in Forks."

"We'll be back today," I impulsively insisted, rising to my feet as well. In my peripheral vision, I realized Emmett and Rozalina were drifting towards the entrance hall, attempting to give us privacy. "As long as someone—" I hesitated, not certain who that might be. "If someone is with my dad, I'm coming back." My refusal to be parted from Edward any longer than necessary remained unspoken, though the slow burn creeping into my cheeks likely gave me away.

Edward lifted a hand, his touch tender as he brushed a finger along my jawline, as if memorizing the blush. "It's going to be alright," his words were soft, for my ears alone.

I shook my head, a sudden swell of emotion filling my chest. I couldn't tell him that it wouldn't be alright when I wasn't with him.

"Don't forget this was your idea," he whispered, a small smile trying to tease me, to distract me. I just shook my head again, blinking back tears. The smile faded like the passing of a shadow before the sun, his eyes blazing with an intensity that felt like fire. He seemed unaware of Emmett and Rozalina across the room, suddenly crushing me to him, his lips hard against mine. I wanted to respond, I wanted to throw my arms around his neck…but instead I pulled away, hurrying towards the door, denying the loss I felt with every step I took away from him. I rubbed at my eyes in the hope that everyone would think I was tired rather than teary, waving nonchalantly over my shoulder as I followed the quiet couple through the door and into the elevator. It was as if I couldn't allow myself to enjoy his touch, not if I truly meant to see him again, not if this was simply a necessary day trip that held no danger, no threat, no possibility that something might happen to either one of us.

I recognized the SUV Emmett had driven when following me in Port Angeles, the tinted windows and bench seats all too familiar. "Why was it so necessary we be in this car?" I asked as I climbed into the back, trying to distract myself.

"The windows are bullet proof," Emmett explained, helping Rozalina into the passenger seat.

My lips clamped shut, realizing I couldn't hang on to my denial—that Viktoriya was still in New York, far away…or had been waylaid as we spoke, already arrested by local police—there could be no denial if I asked questions.

Emmett and Rozalina easily filled the silence on the long drive, their conversation a mix of Russian and English. I refused to think why they might speak in a language I didn't understand, telling myself it was because there must be words that didn't have an adequate translation, or phrases Rozalina might not know—rather than the fact that they might be trying to preserve my sanity as they speculated about my pursuer.

Emmett took the long route, briefly explaining he didn't want to risk using the ferry system and being in a confined space with an attacker. "Too great a risk of collateral damage." Though his voice was matter-of-fact, I couldn't help thinking that it was a cold euphemism for innocent bystanders. "It's unlikely but I'd rather not risk it." I simply nodded, my lip raw as I gazed out the window, wishing Edward were with me.

By the time we finally pulled up to Charlie's little house, the cloud cover had momentarily weakened, allowing darts of the afternoon sunlight to filter through. I couldn't resist bursting from the car and hurrying up the porch steps, eager to see my dad and know he was okay.

"Bella," Emmett's voice called impatiently behind me but I was heedless, pushing open the door—then gasping as strong arms suddenly enveloped me, pulled into a bear hug.

"Jakub?" I guessed, the word muffled against the crisp cotton of a navy shirt.

"Bella! I am so happy you are safe!" His voice was soft, his lips near my ear. I briefly returned the hug, grateful he'd stayed with my dad during the hours we'd been on the road—his presence had probably been the only thing to keep me from tearing my hair out with worry. I drew away as the sound of Emmett's shoes tapped up the steps behind me, his heavy tread communicating his displeasure.

"Emmett, did you ever meet Detective Černý?" I attempted introductions though the two men seemed to be engaged in some kind of staring contest, their features unmoving. "Jakub, this is Emmett McCarty—and Rozalina Mihalova," I added, glancing towards the tall blonde who was presently hanging on to Emmett's hand.

Jakub finally lifted a hand but my sigh of relief was cut short as they fiercely gripped one another's palms. Trying to break up the testosterone dance off, I asked, "Where's my dad?"

"In here, Bells," Charlie's voice called from the rear of the house. I stepped past the two men, leaving them to their alpha male battle and following the sound of his voice to the kitchen. He sat at the battered linoleum table, a mug of coffee before him. His gaze was worried though a half smile curved his mouth. "Sweetheart, why didn't you tell me?"

I fell into the chair opposite, my head bowed. "I didn't think there was anything to worry about."

His rough hand crossed the table, covering my own. "This Jakub sounds like he's on top of things. Deputy Mark let me know they already got a call from the folks in Seattle."

"A call?" I echoed, lifting my head. The bubble I'd tried to maintain during the drive was rapidly crashing down, all of this entirely too real.

"An APB," he explained. "To keep an eye out for this Viktoriya character."

"Oh, Dad," my whisper was broken but I refused to let the tears fall. Tears could do nothing at this point and I needed to hold it together to figure out what the hell to do next.

Emmett and Jakub jockeyed into the kitchen, broad shoulders fighting for space in the narrow archway as they refused to let one another go first.

Charlie seemed amused by their antics while Rozalina merely huffed impatiently, crossing her arms over her chest as she took a seat. I had barely made introductions before Emmett was insisting on getting to the matter at hand. "Would you be opposed to having security—" Charlie's head drew back, brows lowering. Emmett quickly tried to assure him, "Unobtrusive, you wouldn't even know they were here."

"Isn't it Bella who needs security?" Charlie asked sharply, his gaze flicking to me.

"That's all taken care of, sir. I'd be happy to provide you with my credentials—"

"Son, you look like you got your hands full," Charlie interrupted, his gaze shifting to Rozalina, a mischievous glint in his eye. I couldn't help the small smile that flickered over my own mouth at my dad's baiting; in that moment, I knew he was only giving Emmett a hard time because he could do nothing but accept his offer. The least he could do in giving up a sense of authority and control over his own life was give the former FBI agent trouble.

"Sir, I—" Emmett floundered.

"I am happy to stay here as well, Bella," Jakub inserted himself into the conversation. He had been leaning against the wall after Emmett took the last chair at the kitchen table, his hands shoved in his pockets as he listened to the conversation.

"J-Jakub," I stuttered, caught off guard. "That's very kind of you—but it isn't necessary."

Emmett continued as if this exchange hadn't taken place. "I can have someone from N.E.X. here within the hour—"

"Ah, hell, son, at least admit they were already on their way," Charlie laughed.

Emmett had the grace to look sheepish. "Sorry, sir."

"Don't worry about it. But I'm trusting you people to keep my daughter safe. She may be worried about me, but I have a feeling this basket case isn't going to get far." No one at the table spoke, unwilling to contradict the police chief's optimism.

"Can you stay here until security arrives?" I looked up at Jakub, relieved that his glower seemed to lessen at my words.

"Of course. You are going back to Seattle?"

"I—I think it's for the best," I bit my lip, my gaze falling. Emmett smoothly continued, as if explaining for me.

"The resources there give us more leverage, not to mention Viktoriya is more likely to arrive through SeaTac." I nodded adamantly in agreement, relieved his logistics saved me from having to admit my true motivation.

The next thirty minutes were taken up with Emmett inspecting the house, looking over the windows and doors to see if there had been any tampering, and to note any modifications the guard arriving from N.E.X. would need to know. Jakub insisted on accompanying him but Rozalina and I remained at the table with Charlie, trying to discuss lighter subjects, avoiding their posturing.

When they returned to the kitchen, we all stood, trailing towards the door. Emmett was already dialing Edward's number, his voice officious as he left a message. "I'll call every day," I promised, turning to Charlie. He pulled me into a hug, the coffee on his breath and the tickle of his mustache comforting and familiar.

"Love you, Bells," his whispered gruffly.

"Love you, too," I replied, impatiently brushing the silly tears back. Without thinking, I stepped towards Jakub, impulsively hugging him as well. "Thank you for your help."

"Of course," he murmured as I stepped back, his expression slightly stunned.

I turned, following Emmett and Rozalina to the SUV, unable to look over my shoulder as he started the car and we turned back to the long road ahead of us.

Several miles had passed before I spoke, breaking the tense silence, gazing wistfully at the sea of trees beyond the window. "If only I could go far away." It was a childish wish, longing to disappear, to go back in time, to somehow change this situation.

I didn't think Emmett or Rozalina had heard me until Emmett responded, his voice speculative. "That's not a bad idea."

"What?" Rozalina barked before I could speak, her head swiveling to glare at Emmett.

"Wait," he protested, his voice steady. "Viktoriya's frustration was due to the fact that Bella had left the country unexpectedly. What if she knew where Bella was going—what if she had advance notice?"

"You want she should be…." Rozalina bit off the words in exasperation before speaking in Russian.

"No, not bait," Emmett calmly replied, translating for my benefit. "I have no intention of deliberately putting Bella in any danger."

I finally caught on. "But if there was some…some announcement about where I was going…" Emmett's gaze lifted, finding me in the rear view mirror.

"Another search for a book?" he asked.

"No," I bit my lip. "That would be contrary to how that kind of thing works." I couldn't help the grim humor in my tone, recalling my unsuccessful attempt to keep my pursuit of the _Golden Legend_ under wraps. "An auction?" I thought out loud.

"It would need to be Edward Masen's collection to justify the publicity," Rozalina scoffed, folding her arms over her chest.

"This is for the best," Emmett glanced towards Rozalina, sensing the need to convince her. "We can't have anything happen here. There's no extradition treaty with the Ukraine—if Viktoriya does something and manages to flee, it'll take reams of paperwork with no guarantee that they'll relinquish her."

"No offense, Emmett," I exhaled. "I know your job is to worry about contingencies…but please don't presuppose something happening to necessitate mitigating that. Please."

Rozalina's elbow met his ribs at the same moment that the apology was escaping his lips. "Sorry," he huffed, briefly glaring at her as he rubbed his side.

A faint smile crossed my lips, easily able to imagine them clashing at the exhibit. "The exhibit," I breathed, the idea hitting me like a splash of cold water. "What if the exhibit went on the road—to other museums. It just opened—"

"So it would make sense for there to be a delay—to allow people to see it here and to give you a chance to scope out a future location."

"New York?" Rozalina asked.

"No," Emmett's voice was firm. "It needs to be outside of the United States. Like I said—"

"Extradition, right," I wryly filled in. Emmett rolled his eyes at me in the rear view mirror and I stuck my tongue out at him in response. I briefly wondered if our silliness was a reaction to the tension, but my mind quickly moved on, seizing on this new plan. "Maybe Edward can help think of possibilities, help figure out somewhere far away that will also sound legitimate."

"I think," Emmett's gaze found mine again in the rear view mirror, all silliness gone from his expression. "You'll have a much harder job convincing him to let you go at all."


	31. Paradise Lost

The usual disclaimers apply. Thank you in advance for your reviews.

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Thirty**

_Mary I of England: the fourth crowned monarch of the Tudor dynasty, she restored England to Roman Catholicism after succeeding her Protestant half brother, Edward VI. In the process, she had almost 300 religious dissenters burned at the stake in the Marian Persecutions, earning her the sobriquet "__Bloody Mary__." Many rich Protestants chose exile, and around 800 left the country._

The elevator doors slid open to the gleaming white marble of Edward's entrance hall but I didn't sag with relief as I had expected for the past four hours.

"Bella!"

I instinctively flinched as a small hand wrapped around my wrist, tugging me forward. "Alice? What are you doing here?" My frown of confusion had no affect on her bright demeanor, glancing over my shoulder at Emmett and Rozalina as if they might have an explanation. Their bemused expressions held no answers.

"It was impossible to sit at home with that van parked outside!" Alice shivered dramatically as she pulled me down the hall and into the main living area. "And Max got all aggravated when I tried to go talk to him."

"Max?"

"The guard wouldn't tell me his name," she pouted. Then, grinning, "So I made one up!" She waved at Rozalina and Emmett, who had trailed into the penthouse behind me. "I've been cooking all day—at least since Jasper and I got here."

"Jasper…?"

"Hey!" He waved from the chaise where he was lounging, a book propped in his lap. "How was the trip to Forks?"

"Not very enlightening," Emmett grumbled, sinking into an armchair. Rozalina perched on the arm rest, the faintest shadows under her eyes giving away how long a day it had been.

I frowned at him, remembering Edward's use of the word earlier. "But Charlie's alright?" Alice asked before I could think to question Emmett, bouncing up and down on her toes.

"Yeah, if rightfully worried," I admitted, looking down at my hands. Then, peering at her,

"But you didn't explain how you guys ended up over here."

"They crashed the DESC lunch," Edward's voice wryly called across the room as he exited the kitchen.

"I just followed Alice," Jasper held up his hands defensively, hazel eyes innocently wide.

"Good excuse," Emmett scoffed. Alice wrinkled her nose at him, her small hands surprisingly strong as she pulled me down to a sofa angled next to the chaise Jasper occupied.

"I told you, I couldn't sit still with that van parked so ominously outside. I tried to talk to Max—"

"They're supposed to be undercover," Emmett groaned, covering his eyes with one hand. Rozalina placed a hand on his nape consolingly, though an amused smile flitted over her lips.

"And when he got all riled," Alice continued as if Emmett hadn't spoken, "I figured I might as well find Edward—safety in numbers, right?"

"So you went to the DESC lunch?" Emmett asked, brows raised.

"At the Convention Center." Luckily, Edward's voice was still wryly amused. He drifted towards where we were all sitting but hesitated once he reached the circle of our conversation, lingering next to Emmett.

"Collateral damage," Emmett groaned again. My lips thinned, thinking of the crowds of people that had likely been in attendance.

"It was fine!" Alice exclaimed defensively. "Max trailed behind us the whole time, swearing into some headset I didn't even realize he was wearing. And at least it got my mind off of the crazy pants stalker."

"It _was_ distracting," Jasper concurred.

"Especially when she waltzed up to the front of the room with a security guard behind her—and Jasper behind him," Edward chuckled, green eyes amused. I couldn't help smiling in response, relieved to see his demeanor could be light and unburdened—if only momentarily.

"There were empty seats at your table!" Alice protested. "Even one for Max!"

Rozalina laughed at that, her husky chuckle seeming to enchant Emmett from his beleaguered state; his mouth drifted into a helpless smile, lifting his eyes to gaze up at her lovely features.

"Where is he now?" I asked.

"There's a security hub in the lobby of the building," Edward smoothly explained. "He's there monitoring the cameras with the permanent security who work here."

Of course Edward lived in a secure building. Didn't everyone? "I think the ratatouille is ready," he added, inclining his tousled head towards the kitchen.

"Right!" Alice exclaimed, her hand finding my arm again as I rose from the sofa.

I looked at her curiously as she delayed our pace, lagging behind everyone else as they trailed into the kitchen. Her expression was strangely determined, her steps deliberately slow. "What's the deal?" I tried to hide my exasperation, keeping my voice even.

She shook her head, blue eyes fixed on Edward, waiting until he'd disappeared through the swinging door. "It's only that…" She tilted her dark head towards mine, the words a whisper. "I figured he needed a distraction, too." Her gaze was somber and disturbingly perceptive. "I see how he looks at you."

My chin dropped, eyes darting away, unable to admit exactly what we were to each other. It's not as if we'd discussed it, it's not as if I could just assume…

"I figured, even if you left relatively soon after your arrival, it'd be at least eight hours that he'd be stewing," she continued. "I mean, it wasn't entirely unselfish—I could _not_ sit in that apartment a minute longer." She grinned, ever impervious to worry or uncertainty. "A change of scenery did me a lot of good, too."

Alice tugged me the last few steps through the kitchen door. "Come on. Let's eat!"

I waited until after the meal to bring up the plan Emmett and I had brainstormed over the course of the drive back from Forks; his sharp cough when I tried to mention it as we sat down made it clear he thought I should wait. As he and Rozalina offered to rinse the dishes and load the dishwasher, I realized he wanted me to initiate the discussion without him in the room.

I couldn't help mimicking the position Jasper and Emmett had maintained that morning when we'd first learned of Viktoriya's presence in the States, perched on the edge of the sofa, elbows braced on my knees, hands nervously clasped. "So, Edward, I was thinking…"

He'd relaxed into the armchair opposite the sofa, his expression relatively unclouded though we'd done little but speculate as to Viktoriya's whereabouts over the extravagant meal Alice had cooked. "Yes?" he asked as I hesitated.

"Viktoriya's attack was prompted by learning I'd left the country."

"So we think," his eyes went dark, his fingers digging into the arm rests.

I pressed on. "What if she had some advance notice that I was leaving the country again?"

"What?" he barked, leaning forward, his expression so furious I reared back. Seeing this response, Edward visibly tried to relax, his brow stormy as he fought the frown settling there. "What reason could you have for leaving the country? How would that put you in any safer a position than you are now, here?" he gestured at the penthouse, the windows dark with night, lamps dappling warm yellow across the pale carpet.

Alice and Jasper had been whispering in the corner but went silent at his outburst.

"How can I stay and create a threat for everyone I care about?" I cried back, forgetting all of the strategy and logistics Emmett had mentioned in the car. "If she knew where I was going—if it was announced or somehow made public—"

"This is not an option." Edward's voice had gone quiet but was no less furious.

"You can't simply decide for me!" I had no such control over the volume of my own voice, anger flaring at his unwillingness to even consider the idea.

"This isn't a game, Bella," I felt myself grow hot at the patronizing tone of his voice, my hands clenching into fists as my posture straightened. "Jasper very well could have died if Rozalina hadn't happened upon him in time."

"I know that!" I shouted, resisting the urge to jump to my feet. "Do you think I ever forget that? Do you think that doesn't cross my mind at least once a day? And it would have been _my_ fault! How could I risk something like that happening again? If I left—"

"This is not an option!" Edward was no longer able to rein in his own temper, shooting out of the chair. I glared up at him, refusing to be intimidated.

"Edward." Alice's voice was like a shock of cool air, measured and calm, starkly contrasting to our angry and hysterical shouting. "She has a point."

Edward turned his fierce gaze to her but she remained unaffected, features smooth as she returned his stare. She went on. "We've spent the past hour wondering where Viktoriya could be. If Bella leaves, she'd have to surface at an airport where the alert would get her caught." Had Emmett clued Alice in on our planning or had she made the connection on her own? I frowned at her, trying to think if they'd been alone together.

"I'm not putting Bella in danger." Edward had regained a modicum of control, his words spoken at a normal volume—but they issued past tight lips, nearly spat in Alice's direction.

"Emmett could come with me…or Max, or whoever!" I quickly suggested, trying to gain his approval while simultaneously denying my need for it.

"She waited until Jasper was alone!" Edward argued, turning back to me.

"But she won't ever catch up to me!" My voice was a plea. "If she thinks I've gone away—somewhere international so she'll have to have a passport—she'll get caught before she ever hits the tarmac. And no one will be in any danger, least of all Alice, or Jasper or my dad."

"It's not a bad idea." Emmett had appeared from the kitchen, Rozalina wary and watchful behind him.

"It's too dangerous!" Edward's voice was nearly a bellow, eyes blazing as he turned to face him. I wondered if it had been Emmett's plan all along to provide the final concurring opinion, so much more weighted due to his background and professional expertise.

Like Alice, he was unmoved by Edward's temper, brown eyes calm as he replied, "And sitting here waiting, avoiding public spaces with crowds of people, is so much better?"

For a moment, I was afraid Edward might tear his hair out, his hands fisting in the messy strands, green eyes closed to his surroundings. My stomach was coiled into an impossibly tight spring, fearing his response.

To my shock, when he finally spoke, his voice was coldly measured. "For what reason would she leave the country?" His eyes were still closed but he slowly lowered his hands to his sides.

I exhaled in relief, speaking before Emmett could, wanting the burden of Edward' s anger to rest solely with me. "Taking the exhibit to other locations—other museums." His green eyes fell on me, his expression inscrutable. "SAM could make public that the exhibit is going on the road on a certain date—"

"A TBD location?" Jasper asked.

"No, it has to be international so it needs to be decided," Emmett replied, moving farther into the room.

Edward turned his gaze to Emmett, his stare hard and discerning. "Maybe the university could make an announcement as well," I quickly added before Edward could try to take the conversation off track by trying to determine if the whole thing was Emmett's idea. "Something to the effect that one of their curators is preparing a new location for the Masen exhibit." I smiled weakly, tentatively, hoping his lack of response indicated his acceptance of the plan. "And Emmett or Max…or even Sunderland could go with me."

"No." Edward turned back to me, his green gaze unyielding.

"What?" I breathed. Had all of our arguing and reasoning been for nothing?

"I'm going with you."

My mouth fell, unable to believe my ears.

Edward turned to Emmett. "Do you still have access to safe houses?"

Emmett straightened. "I can make some calls."

"But only in cities with major museums." Emmett nodded, his gaze flinty. "And if reinforcements are necessary," Edward's gaze briefly slid to Rozalina, "Feel free to call them in."

"Edward," I whispered, trying to understand how the conversation had gotten so far off course from what I'd planned.

"We should get some things from your apartment." He continued as if he hadn't heard me, his voice brisk, officious. I couldn't stop gaping at him, my mind spinning back, struggling to find the point in the argument where things had so drastically shifted. "You're staying here until we leave," he added over his shoulder as he strode towards the door.

"We should go, too," Alice murmured to Jasper, trailing after Edward.

Realizing I'd have to continue this debate in the car, I sprung to my feet, hurrying to follow.

"You'll need this." Edward didn't give me a chance to broach the topic as I slid into the passenger seat of his sleek car, handing me a small white box covered in bright logos.

I bit my lip as I found the complicated phone inside. It was already powered on, the touch screen covered in icons to access the internet, map applications, and a number of other practical gadgets that I'd never used before. This was not the model that came for free when purchasing a plan. "Edward, this is too much."

"The speed dial is set up so you can easily access me, Emmett, your father, Alice, and N.E.X.," he smoothly continued as if I hadn't spoken.

"Edward," I tried again.

His voice was hard, not allowing me to finish. "It's unsafe in these circumstances to go without a phone."

"I know that," I allowed, blushing at the whine that accompanied the words. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to sound like an adult as I continued, "But this phone is too much."

Edward glanced at me as he down shifted while turning a corner. "It's the latest model—why should you have anything less?" His voice was wry as he went on, "Don't think I've forgotten Dresden." My blush deepened, recalling my rambling stroll through the city streets, and how his phone had been the key to locating my hotel.

"I haven't forgotten," I finally admitted, my voice low. It suddenly occurred to me that I had yet to protest his decision to accompany me in leaving the country. I frowned at him, wondering if that had been his intention from the beginning.

We were nearly to the apartment, Emmett's SUV directly behind us. "This isn't finished," I grumbled, my annoyance growing as Edward simply smiled at the road, teeth flashing in the darkness of the car.

Alice and Jasper sprung out of the Suburban, waving to Emmett and Rozalina as they continued on to his apartment. Edward and I followed them inside, pausing as Alice flicked on the lights and abruptly came to a halt.

"What?" Jasper asked, moving around her towards the kitchen.

"I don't remember…" she murmured, gazing around the room. I glanced at her curiously before continuing to my bedroom but she seemed to be shaking it off, drifting to the sofa.

I turned on the desk lamp in my room, sighing as I realized my suitcase was still in Forks. Why hadn't I thought to grab it while I'd been there today? "Jasper?" I called down the hall, a half-smile crossing my lips at the sound of a beer hissing open.

"Yeah?" he called back.

"Can I borrow your suitcase?"

"Sure thing. I'll grab it." I stepped towards my closet as Edward trailed into the room and sat down at the desk; I deliberately ignored him, determined to have a longer conversation once we were truly alone again.

It wasn't until I slid open the door that I remembered I'd intended to hang up the dress Alice had bought for the exhibit…could it really be that I'd worn it only twenty-four hours before? "I thought I left it…" My voice trailed away, frowning at the futon where I was certain I'd tossed the dress after my shower. Perhaps Alice had hung it up, far more considerate of the expensive fabric than me. I peered deeper into the closet but didn't see it among the jeans and shirts.

"Maybe it's in the bathroom," I thought out loud, returning to the corridor where I brushed past Jasper carrying the suitcase. A strange sense of urgency had suddenly possessed me.

But it wasn't on the hook behind the door, my brow furrowing as my confusion deepened. "What's going on?" Edward had followed me into the bright, tiled space, his expression a mixture of concern and worry.

"My dress…I thought I left it on the bed…"

Edward went very, very still, his green eyes intent as he held my increasingly frantic gaze. Abruptly, he turned, striding towards the living room. I hurried after, my stomach tangling into knots.

"Alice, why did you hesitate when you turned on the lights?" She had not moved from her position on the couch but to pull the latest edition of _Vogue_ onto her lap. She looked up from the magazine at Edward's terse question, her blue eyes taking a brief second to focus.

"I thought I'd left the blinds open…why?"

Edward had already pulled out his phone, his voice quietly furious. "Emmett, I need you here. Can you come—yes, thanks." He was already pressing another number into the dial before I could try to question him. There was a pause before he spoke, briskly demanding, "The agent needs to come inside. Now."

"What's going on?" Jasper asked, having returned from depositing the suitcase in my room.

"Someone's broken in." His voice was hard and certain, gaze unflinching. My knees abruptly turned to jelly and I stumbled to the couch, sagging onto the cushion at Alice's side.

"What?" Jasper was disbelieving.

"They closed the blinds so no one would see them inside. And Bella's dress is missing." Despite the reasonable nature with which Edward said these words, I felt my palms grow slick with sweat.

"But none of the windows are broken…the door was locked." Jasper's confusion was apparent, brow furrowing.

There was a knock at the door and Edward moved quickly to open it. The security guard appeared, his bulky frame garbed in a suit jacket and gray slacks, his buzz cut indicating a military background. "I'll look for any indication of forced locks." Edward nodded but didn't turn to watch as he disappeared down the hall, his green gaze fixed on my pale face.

"You should see if there's anything else missing." His voice was gentle, clearly sensing my panic and doing his best not to add to it.

I nodded dumbly, rising on unsteady feet to return to my room. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calmly examine the belongings I took for granted. It took only a moment to note that the book case had been disturbed, faint lines in the dust at the edge of the shelf where individual volumes had been pulled forward. The letters on the desk had been moved as well, an old billing statement that had been buried beneath other mail and papers sitting on top; it was for my destroyed cell phone, though I couldn't imagine why it should be relevant to anyone.

I returned to the living room, trying not to laugh at the strange feeling that I was quoting Goldilocks. "Someone's been in my room. But I don't see anything else missing."

Max reappeared before anyone could respond, resignation apparent in his demeanor. "The screen has been removed from the back bedroom window—it's in the hedge outside."

Alice leapt up from the couch. "My jewelry…" She disappeared down the corridor while Jasper stared dumbly at the beer he'd opened upon returning to the apartment. As if coming to his senses, he followed her down the hall, his foot steps thudding hurriedly upon the carpet.

"Pack," Edward ordered. It didn't occur to me to get annoyed with his authoritative tone, simply glad someone was taking charge.

Darting back down the hall, I denied the shaking of my hands as I wildly threw whatever was clean into the suitcase, heedless of what I was grabbing. I realized my breathing had sped up as I yanked the zipper shut, wiping my palms on my jeans and trying to calm down. When I lugged it into the living room, I found Emmett had appeared, Rozalina tiredly slouched on the sofa, hungrily eyeing Jasper's forgotten beer. Emmett's voice was low as he conferred with Max and Edward.

"But my jewelry isn't gone!" Alice burst into the room, her voice a wail. "I just don't understand!" Jasper was directly behind her and pulled her close, his arm tight around her shoulders.

"This wasn't about valuables," Emmett cut away from the discussion, his features dark. "I'm sorry," he turned to Edward. "I should have thought to have someone stationed here regardless of whether the apartment was occupied."

Edward waved a hand. "We're working on the fly—you're doing the best you can." He looked at Alice and Jasper. "Would you feel better staying at my place as guests? The only access to my unit is through the elevator with a key card—which only Emmett and I possess. All entrances are monitored twenty-four hours, including the elevator. It's virtually impenetrable."

Alice glanced at Jasper, blue eyes pleading. He looked down at her for only a moment before replying to Edward. "Thanks. We owe you."

Edward shook his head. "It's the least I can do."

Emmett had to act as chauffeur again but because he was in consultation with Max for some time, and Alice took far longer to pack than me, we didn't depart for another hour. Once we were back at his penthouse, Edward swiftly led me back to his bedroom, his hand firm on my elbow. "I'm just going to show Jasper and Alice to their room. The bathroom is through there," he inclined his head to the opposite wall. "Please make yourself comfortable."

It was an impossible request to fulfill, my arms tightly crossed over my stomach, my eyes wide and unseeing as I paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. I barely noticed the luxurious surroundings, the pool of light provided by the bedside lamp illuminating only the dark wood of the night stand it sat upon, and a patch of rich carpet.

My thoughts were scattered, angry and frightened all at once. Why me? Why now? Hopelessness vied with the desire to run far, far away, my hands shaking as I struggled to control my breathing. Though I logically knew that Edward had been gone only a few minutes, the hollow silence of his remote fortress of an apartment filled me with the certainty that I was absolutely alone.

When the bedroom door finally opened, I couldn't help my gasp of relief that he had returned, frantically flying across the room to him. I didn't realize my speed until he grunted with the impact of my body crashing into his—but he didn't protest, his arms wrapping around my waist, his lips in my hair. I reached towards his face, wanting to be certain he was real, longing for this moment to stay frozen, the outside world forgotten—the only reality his arms, his breath, the touch of his hands.

My gaze was desperate as I looked up at him, unable to hide the swirl of emotions I had been fighting all day—trying to be calm, to be brave, to take none of this seriously until there was real evidence I should worry. My fingers tangled in the hair at his nape and he didn't resist as I pulled his mouth to mine.

The kiss transformed from the second his lips met mine, a fierce intensity seeming to overtake him. His tongue thrust into my mouth, hands rising from my waist to my jaw, holding my head firmly in place as he ravaged my lips. I met his intensity with my own, pulling at his hair, leaning into him with all my weight, groaning as he turned, pushing me into the wall.

His mouth sank to my throat, his lips wet against the skin there, sucking, insistent, as if marking me. His hands were at my waist, tugging at my jeans, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of my hips. I wiggled, trying to free myself of the fabric, kicking off my shoes impatiently as I pulled at his shirt, his shoulders, only wanting him closer. A gasp of surprise escaped my lips when he abruptly lifted me, shifting so his weight braced me against the wall, instinctively wrapping my now bare legs around his waist.

"Bella," he groaned before I pulled at his hair again, sucking at his bottom lip, desperate for him. His hands moved from my waist to my bottom, the sound of thin cotton tearing almost drowned out by my moans.

"Edward…" He moved one hand between us, yanking at his shirt and trousers, before sudden hard warmth pushed against me and into me, a cry escaping my lips at his sudden entry. "Edward!" He couldn't respond, his arms like steel around my waist, his face buried in my throat, panting with each short, urgent thrust. My back thumped into the wall with his motions, my own cries soon coordinating with the dull sound. "Edward!" My legs unwillingly tightened, deepening his penetration, my arms mimicking the movement, wanting my body to merge with his. "Edward!" I was shuddering, my legs turning to jelly, barely conscious of his arms locking, holding me in place as he continued to move, burying himself in me, growling against my throat.

The growl deepened, a rumble I could feel in his chest, before he went abruptly still, the faintest shudder of his hips giving away his release.

Our heavy breathing was the only sound for some time before Edward shifted, cradling me against his chest. I was a rag doll as he carried me to the bed, his hands shockingly gentle as he pulled away my sweat-soaked shirt, soothing my hair from my face. A whimper of protest escaped my lips as he moved to step away, a faint smile crossing his lips at the sound. "I'll be right back." I faintly heard water running, then a warm cloth was on my cheeks and throat, then between my thighs, wiping away the slick dampness there.

I could only sigh when he turned out the light and climbed in behind me, unresisting as he pulled me into his arms.


	32. Deception

Thank you for reading. I appreciate it more than you know. No teasers for now as this story is currently fight with many other (mostly good) things for brain space.

Standard disclaimers apply.

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**Thirty-One**

_I will only mention one modern instance. Pope Alexander VI did nothing else but deceive men, he thought of nothing else, and found the occasion for it; no man was ever more able to give assurances or affirmed things with stronger oaths, and no man observed them less; however, he always succeeded in his deceptions, as he well knew this aspect of things._

_Machiavelli, The Prince_

The monitor in front of me offered a menu of options, programs, shows, news feeds and a map with a small, pulsing airplane nearly obscuring the entirety of the Puget Sound. It felt utterly absurd to be here, seat belt tight across my lap, preparing to lift into the sky on yet another journey not of my choosing.

I couldn't help thinking of the flight that had set this entire affair in motion. My eyes briefly closed behind my glasses as I distinctly recalled how frantic I'd felt upon landing in Prague and spying Emmett just beyond customs at the baggage claim. Opening my eyes, a small, rueful smile crossed my lips as I pondered how lost I'd felt when he'd departed two days before. Though two N.E.X. guards had taken up permanent residence in the security hub in the lobby of Edward's building, trailing after me in the few instances that I left his penthouse, it was Emmett's presence that had made me feel truly secure. Unfortunately, it was necessary for him to fly ahead and prepare the safe house he'd selected, assuring its imperviousness and stocking up on provisions.

It had been highly amusing to watch he and Rozalina battle over whether she should accompany him. "You'll be safer here," he'd nearly growled, brows low.

"I will buy ticket for me if you do not." Her expression was haughty and impatient, arms crossed over her chest.

Edward had perhaps been the most entertained by these exchanges, eyes twinkling as they swung back and forth between his college friend and the leggy grad student. When Emmett had finally thrown up his hands, Edward had grinned, "Now you see how it feels?"

His pale hand drifted into my lap, clasping my own. I turned my head to meet his gaze, trying to offer a smile. His mouth quirked, clearly disbelieving my show of confidence, his grip tightening, trying to reassure me. I looked down, taking a deep breath, still amazed by his easy ability to see through me.

"This has happened so fast," I murmured, anticipating his question before he could speak.

"I know," he replied, his voice quiet and nearly lost to the bustle and noise of passengers settling into their seats. "I wish it could have been otherwise." I nodded, still unable to meet his gaze.

The break-in had forced the implementation of our barely formed plan before the details had been fully worked out. Knowing Viktoriya was so close…that she had been in my home…had filled both Edward and Emmett with an urgency that soon felt like a whirlwind surrounding me.

Calls to the Seattle Art Museum took up much of the following day, Edward's voice steely as he bargained with their publicity department, trying to get a newsletter that had already been approved retracted; this would allow an article on the exhibit to be added. Edward had been forced to leverage his acquaintance with members of the board, make vague promises of a large donation, and then get his accountant on the line to confirm those promises before the newsletter was delayed and updated. He had refreshed his email all that afternoon, only relaxing when he saw the attachment with the edited newsletter.

I'd run in similar circles with the rare book division of the university. I was forwarded to the IT department responsible for the web site, then over to personnel to confirm my approval of releasing the information—before Edward finally took the phone from me and somehow accomplished in five minutes what I had been unable to achieve in an hour.

Within twenty-four hours, both the University of Washington and Seattle Art Museums' web sites reflected the fact that I, Isabella Swan, would be scouting out future locations for the rare book exhibit that had opened so successfully that weekend. Emmett and Rozalina were on a flight the next day while Edward and I would follow at the end of the week.

The stewardess began her spiel about flotation devices and emergency landings and I couldn't help closing my eyes again, focusing on the sensation of Edward's hand in mine. Despite the stress of the past week, he had remained a steadying force, calming me whenever worry began to set in. I'd only seen his composure slip once, green eyes flashing, before his features went completely still.

"Jakub?" I'd been surprised to hear the ring of my shiny new phone; for the most part I'd only used it to dial out, checking in on my father every evening.

"You are leaving?" His accented voice confirmed his identity, the note of evident confusion filling me with a strange surge of guilt.

"Jakub, it's—it's for the best," I stuttered, glancing up to Edward. He'd crossed the room when the phone had rang and his features momentarily darkened upon hearing me speak.

"Will you be safe?" Jakub's voice was firm, brooking no false bravado.

"Yes, of course!" I exclaimed, insistent though I had no real idea what that meant. Emmett and Edward had shared very little about the safe house; I knew only the city we were destined to fly in to and nothing more. They had both repeatedly assured me the fewer people who knew the details, the better.

"What does he want?" Edward asked, his voice uncharacteristically cold.

"I thought you'd gone back to Prague," I began, trying to gain control of the situation.

"No, I stay in Seattle. I'm working with the police department here—"

"Jakub, you shouldn't have!" I protested, my eyes going wide with surprise.

"It is nothing." The words were smooth and slightly dismissive, as if being so far away, leaving his home and work behind, meant nothing.

"Bella," Edward began again, an ominous note entering his tone. I rose from the couch where I'd been reading, stepping around him towards the windows that faced the waterfront. I didn't think he'd physically snatch the phone from my hand but I didn't want to risk it.

"Jakub, you really shouldn't trouble yourself," I insisted. "It isn't necessary."

"I want to," he stubbornly replied. "Perhaps I can fly ahead for you—"

"Jakub, _no_!" I interrupted, not allowing him to finish. I saw Edward's reflection appear behind my own in the window, his brows low as he met my gaze. "That's already been taken care of," I added.

"Do I need to speak with him?" Edward asked.

"No," I whispered, turning to face him. "I can handle it."

"You cannot handle it," Jakub replied, not realizing I hadn't been speaking to him. "You need help."

"I have help," I tried to laugh, speaking into the receiver. "I promise, it's all taken care of. But thank you for offering. And please, Jakub," I tried to wrap up the conversation as I saw Edward's strangely flat expression, speaking quickly, "please feel free to go home. You really don't have to stay."

"You don't understand," Jakub refused to take the hint, his tone surprisingly soft as he tried to continue the exchange.

"I have to go." I knew I was being rude, that he didn't deserve such short treatment given how he'd helped me—but I couldn't bear the thought of feeding into any assumptions Edward might have. I had to nip the whole thing in the bud—it had already gone too far. "Good-bye, Jakub."

I didn't wait for his reply, pressing the button to end the call and raising fearful eyes to Edward's face. "Edward, I don't know why he involves himself—"

"I do," he replied shortly, one brow lifting slightly as he regarded me with a steady gaze. Heat slowly filled my cheeks, my own gaze falling. "No matter," he continued, grazing a finger down my temple to my jaw, inexplicably savoring the flush that gave away my lie. "He's harmless."

His words were too decisive, my eyes rocketing back up to his face, examining his blithe expression. "What do you mean?"

The jet pushed down the runway, wheels gaining speed as we reached the terminus. I didn't realize I was holding my breath until Edward's lips gently pressed against my temple. Exhaling, I met his gaze, unable to hide the mix of emotions that swelled within, threatening to overwhelm me.

It wasn't fear alone that clouded my eyes; the danger of my situation could only weigh on me in sporadic bursts, usually in the long minutes between going to bed and falling asleep. There had been too much activity during the days before we'd boarded the plane to dwell on the reason for all of this—and even with Jasper's presence, scars faintly visible, the threat seemed so removed, so theoretical—that even in those dragging moments in the dark, laying in Edward's bed, I couldn't quite envision the danger threatening me.

My uncertainty was somehow more present than my fear, seeming to radiate from my finger tips, tying my stomach in knots. I knew I never would have gotten so enmeshed in Edward's life had Viktoriya remained in the Ukraine; I would not be sleeping in his bed, eating his food, and restlessly pacing the length of his penthouse were it not for her reappearance. It was impossible to think he could have wanted such deep involvement so soon. Were the circumstances otherwise, I knew we would have proceeded at a more normal pace. Did he resent it? Was he concerned I would read too much into his protectiveness—assume it meant more than an obligation to keep me safe?

It certainly didn't help that in the first week of our renewed acquaintance, we'd now twice argued to the point of shouting, red-faced and furious as we reached an impasse.

"It's only practical! How am I to know who he is or what he intends?"

"And you have to resort to background checks to do that!" The disbelief I'd felt upon learning Edward had asked Emmett to investigate Jakub's past had been swiftly replaced by anger. "Don't you trust me?" My voice had softened, unable to conceal the hurt I felt that he didn't have any faith in my judgment.

"It's not that…" Edward ran a hand through his hair, the thick strands standing on end. In the hours when he wasn't on the phone with Emmett or the agents with N.E.X., he was at his office putting in long hours to prepare for another extended leave.

"Then why resort to these background checks again, Edward?" My impatience was evident, my heart pounding as I struggled to regain control of my temper. I'd never shouted at anyone in my life and I'd now nearly come to hysterical bellowing twice in one week with this man.

Edward's green gaze dropped, his hands shifting to his pockets, his hair, his manner so nervous I longed to reach out and calm him. "Because your safety is more important."

He didn't speak the words but I would not be so hesitant. "More important than trusting my judgment."

"What if he was somehow working with her—flying ahead to scope things out—"

"But he's not!" I'd erupted, flinging my hands into the air.

"I only know that because the background check confirmed it," he pointed out.

My eyes went wide at his circular logic. I pushed past him without conscious thought, my exasperation and anger propelling me forward. I didn't stop until I was in the library, my legs somehow having found their way to this familiar space—where I spent most of my time while Edward worked and Emmett planned. Though I longed to challenge his reasoning, I knew, as my pulse slowed, that there was no way we were going to come to a resolution. I pushed my fists into my eyes, beyond frustrated and incredibly tired. Lowering my hands, my eyes blindly darted around the book lined walls; this room had become my refuge in the intervening days but after storming away, I could only feel uncertainty and sadness. Though I tried to deny the thoughts, the seed of doubt was planted: could the nascent thing between us survive such stress?

These memories preoccupied me despite the pressure of Edward's hand, rarely releasing my own over the long hours of the flight. I tried to sleep, but like that journey to Prague that had brought me to this point, I found it impossible. Long after the flight attendants had asked for the shades to be drawn, my eyes stared wide and unseeing into the darkness.

Heathrow was a blur of fluorescent lights and crowded bodies, Edward's arm firm around my waist as he tugged me past lines of bedraggled people. His stride was so long and his pace so quick that I had to scurry to keep up, silently wondering why we were able to bypass the slog of customs and the baggage claim. We darted down a narrow corridor whose overall impression was one of gray drabness, before emerging to an empty side lot where a large, intimidating man stood holding open the back door of a town car. I barely registered the unchanged gray drabness of our surroundings before the door of the car was slamming shut, the interior quiet and somber.

"How…?" I managed, my gaze flitting around the leather confines of the car.

"Security clearance," Edward explained, his gaze hard. "N.E.X. worked with Interpol to make sure there would be no risk to the public, nor to you—"

"How do you mean?" I interrupted, frowning in confusion. "It's not as if she could have tracked my flight. I mean," I went on, trying to articulate my thoughts from the tired fog swirling in my head. "It's not as if she could by lying in wait here."

"We don't know what resources she has at hand," Edward replied, his gaze fixed on the window. I frowned again, thinking this was utterly contrary to the plan we'd put in place—the plan to lure Viktoriya to an airport and get caught in the tight security of customs and international flight. After eleven hours on a plane, however, I couldn't think to argue, closing my eyes to the dim light beyond the windows of the car.

It was only when I started awake that I realized I'd fallen asleep, gazing up at Edward's tenderly amused expression with groggy confusion. "We're here." I tried to mutter something intelligent in reply but the words were garbled, my attention too focused on stumbling from the car without falling.

The sedan was angled beneath a car port at the rear of a house, a wrought iron fence dividing the covered parking from a narrow courtyard of uneven brick. I turned, realizing we'd approached the house from a narrow alley, the cobblestones slick with a rain that had momentarily ceased falling. "Let's get inside," Edward's voice was gruff, nodding to the driver over his shoulder as he guided me through the gate. The house was a blur of gray brick and windows framed in white, the roof steeply pitched—then we were inside, a mud room filled with light greeting my tired gaze.

"You're jet lagged," Edward noted my continued weariness despite my nap in the car, his voice faintly surprised.

I nodded, unable to argue, shoulders sagging as I tried to take in the kitchen beyond the mud room. The faint sound of Emmett's bass grew louder as he moved through the unseen part of the house towards us, his smile faltering when he appeared. "Welco—did you not sleep at all on the plane?"

"Hello to you too," I answered wryly.

"Also you can tell to her she looks fat," Rozalina grumbled, pushing past him to wrap her arms around my shoulders. I couldn't help a slight smile at her easy ability to cut the burly man down to size, biting my lip to hide the expression as she pulled away.

"Sorry!" Emmett exclaimed, his expression shifting to genuine contrition before he grasped Edward's hand in greeting. "You made it safely."

"No problems at all," Edward confirmed. I felt a frown growing between my brows again, unable to identify what was striking me as so odd about their exchange. "But you," Edward turned to me, cutting the thought short. "should lay down before dinner. I know staying awake is supposed to be the best thing for jet lag—"

"No, you're right," I wasn't going to fight him on this, nodding acquiescently in a manner that I knew was the result of being exhausted. I would much rather have stayed up, acquainting myself with the safe house, finding out what Emmett and Rozalina had been up to in the interim, and hearing any updates on Viktoriya. But I didn't have it in me.

Emmett led both of us through the house while Rozalina remained in the kitchen to brew a kettle of tea. We passed through the kitchen with black and white tiled floors, the cupboards reaching to impossibly high ceilings, before swinging into a long dining room with hardwood floors in an unexpectedly dark stain. Crown moulding ringed the ceilings and wainscoting skirted the walls, details rarely seen in Seattle apartments. An entrance hall beyond the dining room was circled by a mezzanine, the staircase winding upward from the center of the space, the curling balustrade mimicking the ascending curl of the stairs.

"What is this place?" I murmured as we climbed the stairs after Emmett, my gaze lingering over my shoulder, roving over the faint glow of the marble floors and the age-dulled stripe of gray and cream wallpaper.

"A safe house," Edward smiled, landing a kiss upon my brow. Doors circled the mezzanine, Emmett's figure quickly ducking through the one farthest from the staircase. His large frame nearly blocked the natural light bleeding into the narrow corridor from the window at the end. It was then that I realized every window we'd passed had been covered, the light muted, the exterior but a blurred outline to my tired gaze.

It was with this thought that I sank into the plush bed at the center of a dim room, my eyes falling shut to the reality of my situation before Edward had fully closed the door behind him.

Though I'd only heard the cell phone Edward had bought me ring once before, I instantly recognized the insistent noise, my dreams forgotten as I reared away from the pillows. I registered Charlie's number on the screen and was immediately filled with contrition for having failed to call him when I arrived.

"Dad?"

"Bells, you got in okay?"

"Yeah, sorry—I didn't sleep on the plane—"

"You never did sleep flying up from Phoenix, either," he chuckled.

"I know," I sighed, trying to run a hand through the tangle of my hair. "Is everything okay there?" It was the question I asked every time we spoke, as if his answer could somehow guarantee his continued safety.

"'Course," Charlie responded. "You didn't need to send another detective to check on me."

Confusion seized me, brow furrowing. "Another detective?"

"Besides that nice Jakub fellow."

"Dad," I nearly leapt off the bed, crossing to the door in two strides though I didn't have on my glasses and couldn't entirely judge the distance. "I didn't send a detective—maybe Emmett—"

"No, he said he knew you," Charlie now sounded confused as well. "Came into the station two days ago."

"Dad, I don't know any other detectives besides Jakub!" My voice was a cry, echoing across the entrance hall as my feet hit the mezzanine. "What was his name—what did he say?"

"James—he said his name was James."

"Did you tell the N.E.X. guard?" I asked, my breath was coming faster, nearly tripping as I raced down the stairs. I could hear voices in the kitchen, my heart pounding as I sought out Edward, desperate for him to fix this, to do something. I couldn't bear it if…

As if sensing my approach, Edward was suddenly before me, green eyes wide with concern and questioning. I thrust the phone towards him, Charlie's voice faint through the ear piece.

"No, you know folks come into the station all the time…"

I pushed past Edward, wishing the rapid pulse of my heart would allow me to breathe, to think. Emmett instantly rose from his position in a breakfast nook I hadn't initially noticed in a curve of the kitchen, the banter he and Rozalina had been exchanging dying at my appearance. "Tell me what's happened."

"My dad," I could feel the tears coming and desperately pushed them back, trying to stay calm. "Someone came into the station—they said they knew me—a detective. I don't know _anyone_—you both dealt with the S.P.D—"

Edward was on my heels, his tone so grave that I felt my heart stutter. "Can you tell me what he looked like?" Emmett was handing him a pad and pen, using another to jot his own questions. "And what exactly did he say?" Edward was nodding to Emmett, then went abruptly still. "It sounds like he was trying to tease out where we went."

Emmett was furiously scribbling but I couldn't pay attention, sinking into the chair he'd been occupying, knees weak, vision blurred. I felt Rozalina's hand on my own but my gaze was unseeing, Edward's voice a faint murmur as blood pounded in my ears. "Head between knees!" The harsh bark of Rozalina's voice brought me back to reality, belatedly realizing that I'd been slumping forward and failing to breathe. I obediently lowered my head, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

The panic subsided enough for Edward's next words to penetrate. "We thought she had a partner but this comes off as far more professional than we imagined."

Emmett never got the chance to respond. "You thought what! ?" I reared up, forgetting entirely that I'd been nearly ready to pass out, far too consumed by indignation to hesitate. My eyes blazed as I found Edward's figure in the doorway of the kitchen, hands clenching into tightly balled fists. He still held my phone in one hand, the other buried in his hair.

Green eyes swung to mine, realizing too late what he'd said, what he'd given away. "You anticipated this! ?" The anger in my voice was evident, concealing the hurt that he'd kept yet something else from me—hadn't trusted me, hadn't given me enough credit to keep me informed about something at which I was the very center.

Emmett tried to intervene, his tone conciliatory. "It was just a guess, Bella."

"Based on what?" I didn't bother to pull punches, the words spat between tight lips.

"The clean break-in, the drawn shades—the fact that she hasn't surfaced since New York. As a grad student," he took a deep breath, his gaze falling to the stark tiles of the kitchen floor. "It's incredibly unlikely she'd have experience with these things."

"Don't you mean that you _know_ she has no experience of breaking and entering and other criminal activities because you did a background check?" My harsh response was like nails, unwilling to give an inch. They'd both kept me in the dark and I wasn't going to let it go simply because we were confined in this safe house playing a waiting game with Viktoriya—and her partner.

Emmett's phone rang before he could respond. He grimaced in my direction but I simply crossed my arms over my chest, lips a thin line as he answered. "Yeah? You didn't see—" He paused, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Get the tapes then—I want to see who this is."

His gaze met Edward's as he ended the call. "That was N.E.X.—the guard with your dad," Emmett's expression gentled slightly as he added this, turning to me. "There's enough foot traffic in and out of the station that this person—"

"James," Edward added darkly, his gaze flicking to me.

"James," Emmett corrected. "He didn't draw any notice, including that of the guard." He sucked in a breath, glancing at Edward's notes. "Your dad said he had an accent—not as strong as Jakub's but enough that he assumed James was telling the truth—that he'd met Bella in the Czech Republic."

I couldn't help my huff of frustration and I embraced the anger, the aggravation of being so far away, the fury that I was only now finding out about the existence of this person—because if I allowed the stormy feelings to fade, I'd be left with only panic, helplessness and fear. "You know I met no one—just Jasper and Rozalina and a handful of clergy!"

"He's not clergy, that's for sure," Emmett shook his head ruefully. "Your dad said he had on sneakers and jeans—no wonder the guard didn't notice him. He blended in but for the accent."

"Could she have hired someone?" Edward asked.

"It's possible," Emmett shook his head again. "This is coming across as more and more calculated—it's worrying."

I couldn't sit still any longer, jumping to my feet and crossing to the other side of the kitchen. Emmett went on, trying to assuage my obvious anxiety. "There's a closed circuit camera set up in the station. The guard is working with your dad to get the tape now."

"That's fantastic!" Rozalina interjected, clearly the only one able to find the seed of hope in this entire mess—and after all, she didn't have to worry about my wrath as Edward and Emmett did.

"It's VHS—"

"Yeah, Forks isn't really cutting edge," I sighed, brows drawn together.

Emmett went on, "So it may take a few hours for him to get it converted—he thinks the nearest place able to do it might be in Port Angeles. Once that's done, he'll send it over and we can at least get a look at this person as well as have their image distributed by Interpol. I want to make sure the APB includes him as well as Viktoriya."

"And until then?" My voice was like ice, my gaze darting to Edward, whose own expression had grown steely as Emmett and I spoke.

"We wait. I want to do some research on Charles University's student list—see if there's any match with that name…though it could very well be an alias."

"Didn't you say it's unlikely Viktoriya as a student could be so…" I struggled for the right word. "Stealthy?"

Emmett sighed, lifting his hand to rub the back of his neck. "It's a long shot but it's the best I can do for now." I nodded shortly, my gaze falling back to Edward. His eyes were fixed on the floor, his shoulders tensed and practically level with his ears. "You want to keep me company while I look?" Emmett directed this to Rozalina, clearly sensing that Edward and I needed to talk.

She nodded and nearly leapt from her seat in the breakfast nook, glancing at Edward and I worriedly before following Emmett from the room.

I didn't wait until they were out of earshot. "Did you ever plan on telling me?"

Edward's gaze shot up, green eyes glittering. "It seemed like you had enough on your mind."

"I'm not a child, Edward!" My frustration boiled over at yet another example of his high-handed measures—and inability to be honest with me.

"I never said you were."

"Then why do you treat me as though I am! ?" I flung my hands in the air, chest heaving. "Between this and the background check on Jakub—I don't know what to think!"

"That was perfectly reasonable," he insisted, his jaw set. "Who the hell flies thousands of miles to follow up on a case so far beyond his jurisdiction—"

"Someone who probably would have told me they thought my stalker had a partner!" I couldn't help defending Jakub, my voice shrill with the final word. While Jakub's interest in me was worrisome, he'd never overstepped boundaries, never hurt me—and never lied to me.

"We didn't know for sure!" Edward protested, his own voice gaining volume.

I scoffed. "You had a pretty decent hunch, Edward. The way you were acting at the airport—you knew the threat was greater than you let on—"

"And was it so wrong to try and protect you from that! ?" The desperation in his voice gave me pause, my own temper subsiding at the wild expression on his face. We were inches from one another, angrily shouting…again.

"Oh, Edward." The words were a whisper, the blood draining from my cheeks as I realized what this situation was doing to us. Did we have a chance at all? "I just…I don't know."

Realizing I was no longer talking about Viktoriya or James, Edward tried to reach a hand to my cheek-but hesitated at the last moment. "Don't say that," he finally responded, his voice rough.

I shook my head, blinking back the sudden tears that had filled my eyes. This situation was so extraordinary, so unlike my every day life—it was impossible to know if his high-handedness, if his secretiveness borne of a need to protect me, if his deep need for control would be as evident when life was more mundane. Despite the powerful draw I felt towards him, all of the arguing, the shouting…I didn't know if I could bear it.

"Don't." The word was a plea rather than a command, Edward's hands finding my cheeks, trailing into my hair, lowering his forehead to my own. "This will pass and…things will be better." He inhaled deeply. "I promise."

I shook my head gently, unwilling to be so easily pacified. "You can't keep things from me, Edward."

"I won't," he vowed.

"I mean it," I continued despite the sincerity in his voice. "No more secrets. No more hiding. This involves me. I can't be in the dark."

He swallowed, briefly closing his eyes. "I know." His gaze found mine, green eyes intent. "I know it's no excuse…but I'm so used to making decisions without taking into consideration—"

"But it's about me," I insisted. "You can't protect me from everything."

He smiled weakly. "I can try."

I couldn't help a small breath of laughter. Only he could send me from the heights of rage, to hopeless sadness, and finally amusement all in the span of a few minutes time.

"But I promise," he went on. "I would rather you know everything and deal with those consequences…than have you angry and doubtful and ready to walk away from me."

I gazed up at him, wide-eyed, surprised at the power I held over him. I couldn't think to speak.

It ultimately didn't matter for his mouth sought out mine, gentle at first then more insistent…as if he could stake me there, bound to him, with his lips alone.


	33. London

**Disclaimer: no copyright infringement intended, no profits made. All original elements are mine. **Thanks in advance for your reviews.

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**Thirty-two**

Δημήτριος: _pertaining to Demeter, this name can refer to any number of military men, saints and princes alive during ancient and biblical times. A short list includes: the son of Althae-menes, and the son of Pythpnax, both in the cavalry under Alexander; one of the body-guards of Alexander suspected of being engaged in the conspiracy of Philotas, and displaced in consequence; and the Christian martyr run through with spears around 306 A.D. The saint was initially depicted in icons and mosaics as a young man in patterned robes with the distinctive __tablion__ of the senatorial class across his chest. Miraculous military interventions were attributed to him during several attacks on Thessaloniki, and he gradually became thought of as a soldier._

"God fucking damnit, Emmett!" I thought I was going to have a heart attack, my fist at my chest as if I could physically force the panicked organ to stop slamming against my ribs.

"Sorry!" He was laughing as he said it, making clear that he really wasn't. "I thought a little surprise wouldn't hurt since we're all on edge…"

"Think again!" But just as he wasn't really sorry, I wasn't really angry, a smile already tugging at my lips.

I hadn't been able to sleep after Edward rose with the steadily growing luminescence filling the bedroom we shared. Though it was just past six, I padded into the kitchen below stairs to make coffee for both of us; he planned to head into the City on business for Whittier-Veill that he felt he might as well attend to while in London. In doing so, he would of course be accompanied by one of the many N.E.X. guards positioned at discreet points around the perimeter of the house and throughout the neighborhood.

Emmett found me there after Edward had left, his large figure no less intimidating in plaid pajama pants and a tee shirt. "Isn't your internal clock telling you it's one in the morning?" he asked as he grabbed a mug from a cupboard above the stove.

I waved a hand as if I'd grown nonchalant to the effects of jet lag with the two trips I'd now taken to Europe. I turned my gaze to the curtained window as he sank into the bench seat across from me, large hands wrapped around the mug. "Couldn't sleep?" he continued.

"Not with that footage unseen." The security guard had been unable to find anyone who could convert VHS in Port Angeles and had been forced to go to Seattle. By the time he arrived, the two shops that offered overnight service were closed. I'd tried to preoccupy myself with exploring the house, taking cold comfort in the control room positioned on the ground floor just off the entrance hall. The wall of monitors showed steadily boring footage of the front and back door, down the alley from a camera I suspected was affixed to the back fence, and even the roof. A computer, scanner, printer, and telephone took up much of the surface of the desk, a hot water kettle the only indication of any human needs on the part of the N.E.X. guards stationed there.

"Why don't you shower?" Emmett suggested, his voice kind. "Then meet me on the mezzanine—there's something I want to show you."

I sighed but nodded my head, realizing that gazing out the curtained window of the breakfast nook wasn't going to get the footage in our hands any sooner. I rose, leaving Emmett to the newspaper I'd been neglecting, coffee steaming in his oversized hands as I trotted back upstairs.

The house seemed strangely silent once the patter of the shower was shut off. I tried to tell myself it was my nerves, strung too taut with everything we'd learned the prior day. It was still early and this house was much larger than the penthouse I'd shared with three people prior to our departure for London. Roughly rubbing my hair with a towel, I wondered still if I shouldn't hear Rozalina brewing another pot of coffee or the sound of Emmett's low bass as he checked in with the various agencies that he seemed to have on speed dial: N.E.X., Interpol, the local police force.

I pulled a hoodie over my head and a pair of jeans onto my legs before turning into the narrow corridor that lead to the mezzanine. Even without Emmett's massive form to block the window, it was a dim space, the open doorway to the entrance hall a bright beacon I was eager to reach given the eerie quiet of the house.

Just as I turned onto the narrow mezzanine, a heavy hand fell on my shoulder from directly behind me, a deep voice muttering, "Freeze."

I lurched away, a scream caught in my throat, belatedly realizing the voice belonged to Emmett as he broke down in chuckles.

"God fucking damnit, Emmett!" My voice was nearly a screech, my fist at my chest as my heart beat out a panicked rhythm against my ribs.

"Sorry!" He was laughing as he said it, but he was nearly bent double, clearly too amused to be truly remorseful. "I thought a little surprise wouldn't hurt since we're all on edge…"

"Think again!" But I wasn't really angry, my lips fighting a losing battle with the smile forming there. "Did you actually have something you wanted to show me," I asked, a brow lifted. "Or was this just an opportunity for you to exercise your adolescent sense of humor on me?"

"No!" he protested. "I really do have something to show you—something I hope will make you feel a little safer given the possibility Viktoriya might have help."

He gestured for me to follow him down the length of the mezzanine, turning into the first door from the stairs. Unlike the other three entrances that led down corridors to suites of rooms, this door opened onto a wide open space that appeared to be a home gym. The hardwood floors were scarred but polished, dully gleaming in the light that poured through sheer panels on the large windows facing the street. A treadmill was positioned nearest the windows, a flat panel television mounted on the opposite wall. Metal weights rested in racks near a door that I presumed led into a bathroom, a bench positioned in the middle of the floor with a bar placed across its supports.

"You wanted me to feel safer knowing you work out?" I quipped, turning to Emmett with a wry smile. "Believe me, I am glad you can beat—"

"Pssh," Emmett dismissed my joke, rolling his eyes. "That's not what I wanted to show you. Here," he reached towards the knob for the bathroom door, stepping aside to show me the small space, all white tile and…porcelain toilet.

"Uh, yeah," I started, flipping the switch directly inside the door. "I've never used a toilet with one of those upper tanks…"

"Don't you notice anything strange?" Emmett prompted me, brown eyes twinkling mischievously.

I looked closer, a line forming between my brows. "There's no sink…but I know that's not atypical here…" There was also a full length mirror on one wall, reflecting my bemused expression and a wedge of Emmett's broad shoulder. "It's a bit small to practice flexing," I teased him over my shoulder as I stepped closer to the mirror. It was set into the tile, as if it had been intentionally built into the wall rather than screwed atop it.

"A bit," he agreed, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched me approach the mirror. I ignored my pale skin and still damp hair, examining the edge of the mirror for whatever trick Emmett was trying to show me. Lips pursing, I lifted a hand, pressing tentatively against its surface. I couldn't help sucking in a breath when it abruptly shifted to the left, sinking into the wall like a pocket door. My wide eyes could only make out darkness beyond the narrow opening, the space dim compared to the bright bathroom, its boundaries indiscernible.

"A panic room," Emmett elaborated as I continued to hesitate. I couldn't help my caution when I finally moved forward, thinking it would be just my luck to have the secret mirrored door try to sink shut as I reached the opening, clocking me in the temple. As I stepped across the threshold and my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw a cot, chair and shelves filled with food and supplies. The only light was provided by a wall filled with multiple monitors, all displaying the same feeds as those in the control room, black and white images of the entrances, back alley and roof flickering before me.

"There's enough dry goods and water to last two weeks, a spare cell phone and charger in the instance that the land line is cut, a first aid kit…" Emmett went on, explaining all the attributes of the room. I found it impossible to respond, my mouth suddenly dry as the reality of my situation was again brought home—this extreme measure was part of my life, a precaution I couldn't have imagined even a few weeks ago.

I struggled to form a smile as I turned to Emmett, trying to be reassured as he'd intended rather than even more fearful. He ceased speaking as he registered my anxious expression, realizing my reaction even as I tried to hide it.

He lifted a hand to my shoulder, his tone filled with a certainty I wished I could feel. "I'm sure this room will get zero use while we're here. I just wanted you to know it existed—"

"I know," I allowed, knots twisting in my stomach as guilt mixed with the fear already present there. "I'm glad it's here," I added. "And if I decide to start pumping iron, I'll let you know," I joked, not wanting him to worry.

"I'll have you lifting your own body weight in no time," Emmett teased back, his hand falling from my shoulder. "We should find Rozalina before she tries to make another pot of coffee," he changed the subject, glancing toward the secret door.

I frowned at him, not quite understanding.

Seeing this, he quietly explained, "She always forgets the filter and doesn't seem to think it's a big deal to drink coffee filled with grounds."

I couldn't help my disgusted expression and he nodded adamantly. "Exactly," he whispered. "And do you think I'd dare to tell her she's making it wrong?"

"Oh, no," I agreed with wide eyes. "Never." With that, we made our way back downstairs to find Rozalina sleepily filling the coffee pot with water.

"Let me get that," Emmett helpfully interrupted her, ably stealing the carafe from her hands. I struggled to conceal my giggle, innocently smiling at Rozalina when she glanced suspiciously in my direction.

Hours later, I was dozily reading a book in the bedroom I shared with Edward when I distantly heard Emmett's phone ring. His voice sounded sharp as he spoke, as if it were more than a customary call. I laid my book on the nightstand, my interest piqued, and was just rising from the bed when he appeared in the doorway. "The tape is converted—he's sending it as an attachment now."

I scrambled off the bed, following Emmett down to the control room where the seated N.E.X. guard was already pulling up the email. Emmett leaned forward, hands braced against the desk, eyes glued to the screen, impatience rolling off of him in waves. I peered over both of their shoulders, restraining the urge to dance from foot to foot in anticipation. My heart pounded as I wondered if I would recognize the person…or if it would be another frustrating mystery. Somehow, my pulse only managed to gain speed as the attachment finished loading.

The footage was grainy and colorless, my eyes struggling to find my dad among the blobs on the large monitor. Slowly, my vision adjusted to the medium, the image resolving into recognizable shapes and figures, the angle far from ideal perched so high above the desks and cabinets of the police station. I finally found Charlie in the upper corner of the screen, his features identifiable mostly due to his mustache. He sipped a cup of coffee as he perused a report and my lips lifted in an involuntary smile at the comforting sight.

Charlie abruptly looked up and appeared to be speaking but it was several seconds before the man with whom he'd been conversing appeared in the frame. My pulse sped, knowing this was him, the man who was supposedly helping Viktoriya. His figure was tall and slim, hands in his pockets though his stance was otherwise relaxed. I was beginning to wonder if he'd known the camera was present but before I could voice the thought, Charlie gestured to the chair opposite his desk, clearly urging the man to sit down.

The black and white and muted grays of the footage gave no indication of his coloring; I could guess his skin was pale, and assume his hair was black, but it was impossible to know for sure. A smile flashed across the profile that was solidly within our view and it occurred to me that to some he would be handsome. Watching his lips move with words I couldn't hear, I realized the only thing I knew for certain was that I'd never seen him before in my life. James was a stranger to me.

The slam of Emmett's fist against the desk top abruptly knocked me from my thoughts, equipment clattering upon the surface, the hot water kettle nearly toppling over. "Goddamnit!" His voice was a bellow, so jarring in its loudness that I couldn't help jumping—as the scanner and phone had done seconds earlier. I stared at him with wide, confused eyes but he was glaring at the monitor, hands fists upon the desk, tendons straining in his neck. "I should have guessed!"

"Guessed what?" I whispered, unable to conceal my fear of his answer. He spun away from the desk and I found myself stumbling back into the wall at his expression—I had never seen him so furious, lips tight, jaw clenched, brows low over dark eyes. Worry began to course in earnest through my veins as he failed to reply and reached into his pocket for his phone, angrily stabbing at the dial pad.

"Marcus?" he barked. "Emmett—Emmett McCarty. We just got our hands on the tape and I know the identity of Viktoriya's accomplice." He paused and I could nearly hear his teeth grinding as the muscles in his jaw jumped and strained. "Demitri. Demitri Volkov. He worked for us on a private case just a few weeks ago—Edward fired him!"

The puzzle pieces began to snap into place, my breathing growing accelerated as I listened to Emmett speak. Edward had confessed that I'd been followed all along…from the day of my arrival in Prague…but for one impulsive trip…

Emmett was dialing again before I could confirm what I didn't want to be true, my hands starting to tremble as he snapped into the phone. "You need to get back here now! It's Demitri!" He paused, a frustrated flush climbing up his neck to his face. "He's former K.G.B., Edward! You have to get back here now—we have to lock this place down…"

The dull roaring in my ears grew to a rushing crash, unable to hear any more. My vision was filled with the memory of Edward's pale features, green gaze strained as I confronted him in the offices of Whittier-Veill. His voice echoed in my head, weakly lifting my hands to my ears as if I could silence the words. I'd been followed every day—but for the morning I'd driven into the countryside and run out of gas, an oversight Edward could not allow. "…Demitri was fired before breakfast…" He'd said it so dismissively and I hadn't thought to question it, to wonder at the implications of his actions.

I couldn't help thinking of dominoes, curling around, a maze leading to a terminus I couldn't see, inevitably falling to the end.

The sudden weight of Emmett's arm over my shoulders brought me back to reality, firmly guiding me from the control room as he continued to bark into the cell phone. "Demitri Volkov. D-E-M-I-T-R-I—I need an APB issued now!" Then he bellowed louder, forcing his voice to carry as my feet shuffled across the wood surface of the entrance hall. "Rozalina!" he called inbetween issuing orders into the phone. "Rozalina! Bella needs you!"

I was soon sitting, nearly hunched over in the curve of the breakfast nook, Rozalina's hands warm over my own before a mug of tea was placed between my palms. It was several minutes before Emmett finished making the necessary calls, and we were all silent in the wake of the sudden quiet. Rozalina was the first to speak.

"Do you think he searched for her?" her voice was somber, husky with the import of what we'd learned.

"It was all over the papers in Prague," Emmett sighed, lifting his hand to his forehead and grasping his temples. "A visiting professor—and an American at that—stabbed by a student? It was everywhere—I think even the Associated Press picked it up."

"So he finds her…" Rozalina continued, prompting him, brow delicately furrowed.

"Probably not until after she was back in the Ukraine—the security was likely too tight before that, especially given Jasper had yet to leave for Seattle." Emmett dragged his hand down his face. "But who knows! Counter espionage, tracking, weapons expertise—those are the credentials these guys have and they were definitely eager for the work." At my bemused expression he added, "Given the break up of the Soviet Union, among other things."

"But ethically…" I tried to break in, thinking of their equivalent in the United States. "I mean, the F.B.I…."

Even Rozalina was grimacing at me, her lovely features made wry with the expression. "But there is little work there, the pay, the prestige is not as before…and party loyalty—it is for nothing now."

"If these guys don't get the kind of private contract we hired them for, they often end up working for the Russian mafia," Emmett added, his voice grim.

A door slammed and the sound of someone entering the house through the mud room instantly set us all on edge. Emmett instinctively spun, his arms slightly lifted from his sides, blocking Rozalina and me in our positions at the table.

"I came in loudly enough I thought you'd know I wasn't a threat," Edward commented sardonically as he appeared in the doorway and gracefully stepped around Emmett to reach my side. "Are you alright?"

I nodded shortly though it was utterly untrue, swallowing the nervous lump in my throat. His hands were on mine, the motion protective, covering my fingers with his own. When I spoke, as with Emmett earlier, I tried to make a joke to keep him from worrying. "So you got any other enemies I should know about?"

The following week saw us confined to the safe house in a manner I don't think anyone could have anticipated. Perhaps it had been a contingency plan Emmett never thought to enact but with the knowledge that Viktoriya had somehow partnered with a former K.G.B. agent, there was no choice. It was simply too risky for Edward to journey into the City to the London Whittier-Veill offices and any speculation I might have had about seeing local museums or even the occasional farmer's market were quite impossible. Emmett apologized nearly hourly that first day, his frustration evident.

"I should have guessed! For fuck's sake—'James' is an English variation of 'Demitri'!"

"Shh…" Rozalina tried to soothe him, running her slender fingers through his curls. "Such a guess—it is one in million."

I thought I might chafe against the restraints of never leaving the house but found to my surprise that I was shockingly content to laze around in bed to an hour that would have seemed downright slothful only weeks ago. It certainly helped that Edward seemed equally capable of lounging among the tangle of sheets, light weakly filtering through the curtains, pillows piled around.

"Don't you think we should get up?" I whispered, not entirely sure I meant it.

"No," he firmly replied, pulling me close. I felt his lips in my hair, then trailing down my temple to my cheek before they softly landed upon my mouth.

"Again?" The word was a huff of laughter against his lips but he simply replied as firmly as before.

"Yes." His fingertips drew up the length of my arms, finding my bare shoulders and caressing the skin there, before moving lower to the swells of my breasts. "Bella," he whispered, mouth falling to my throat before finding a path between, unabashedly teasing me.

I had learned that if I begged, he would only wait longer, taking his time, tormenting me until I was nearly a sobbing wreck thrashing against the sheets. The only way to fight back was to tease him as shamelessly, running my hands down his back to the sensitive planes of his hips, lingering on the bones evident there, just brushing back and forth…back and forth…

"You witch," he whispered, green eyes shining as he looked up from my belly to meet my gaze.

"All's fair…" I began, smiling impishly.

His brows drew together. "Don't remind me!" he groaned, quickly grasping my hands and pressing them into the soft mattress. "Don't remind me of how I almost lost you," he murmured, his gaze suddenly sad and intense before his lips fell to mine.

"Never," I shook my head, mouths brushing from side to side.

There was a corner of my mind that knew we were avoiding reality, taking refuge in this forced idle…and likely affirming our existence in the most clichéd way. But whenever such thoughts crept in, I pushed them away, refusing to analyze or reason the cause for the long hours in bed, struggling to take only pleasure in the moment.

I might have been embarrassed by the amount of time we spent locked away but frequently found that even when I rose from bed to fetch a snack or drink from the kitchen, Emmett and Rozalina were equally absent, the soft sounds of conversation…or other activities…emerging from the corridor where their suite of rooms was located.

Edward teased me for my blushing when I returned with two bottles of water and bright red cheeks. "They are adults, you know," he chuckled.

"I know!" I protested, swiftly lifting the bottle to my lips to try to hide my embarrassment. Water splashed across my cheeks and down my throat, my gasp of surprise turning into a hacking cough as it went down the wrong tube. Nearly twenty minutes passed before Edward stopped laughing.

Though we were so confined, the N.E.X. guards sweeping the common rooms every hour, it was sometimes easy to forget the reason for our confinement. With the door locked and Edward's hands on my body, the whole world fell away. At other times, however, the situation was all too real.

Dinner never failed to be an occasion for Edward and Emmett to speculate about Demitri's involvement: when he and Viktoriya had joined forces, how they might successfully get past airport security, questioning whether I'd had any news from Charlie during our daily conversation…The topic and questions usually killed my appetite.

For this reason, in the few instances when we all happened to be up and about at lunch time, I usually begged off joining the two men over sandwiches and tea. Six days had passed since Emmett had recognized Demitri in the video and my only contribution to these discussions was the expectation that he and Viktoriya would soon be caught trying to board an international flight. Anything more filled me with too much dread and worry to think straight.

I could hear their voices faintly from the dining room below as I laid in bed trying to focus on the book in my hands. Edward's baritone mixed with Emmett's bass, the two sometimes overlapping as they theorized and strategized. Though we had retired early the night before, sleep had not come until nearly two and my eyes fought to stay open, focusing in and out, text swimming on the page.

I would later recall the screech of tires that preceded the explosion but in my groggy state, that was all I registered—the shocking blow of sound that sent me rearing from the bed, the glass in the lead panes rattling. Car alarms outside were shrieking in the aftermath, the confused barking of voices downstairs struggling to be heard over one another. I was on my feet without conscious thought, stumbling down the corridor towards the mezzanine, unable to understand what was happening.

There were pops like fireworks joining the cacophony of car alarms, confused voices, and the faint, flickering hiss of fire. I hesitated in the corridor, briefly thinking I should head for the panic room, when a scream sounded from the street.

"Edward," I whispered, running towards the mezzanine, all thoughts of the panic room gone.

I was going so fast that I collided with the balustrade, seizing the railing with panicked hands to keep from accidentally flinging myself over the edge. Utterly breathless, I realized as if from afar that I was squinting because my eyes were burning from the smoke wafting through the open front door. My gaze darted below me, trying to make out any figures in the haze but the entrance hall was distressingly empty, my ears straining to hear Edward's voice among the cries and curses I could faintly hear from the street. I struggled to regain my breath and was about to launch myself down the stairs when a silhouette appeared in the doorway, too diminutive to be any of the guards...or Rozalina's tall frame.

My breath caught in my throat as the figure strode with measured determination into the hall, unhurried, eerily calm. I could not mistake that wild curly hair of rich red, nor the green eyes that lifted to meet mine, as if she knew exactly where I would be.

Every drop of blood drained from my face as she smiled sweetly, eyes burning bright. "Bella," Viktoriya spoke, her voice girlish and warm. "Just the person I've been looking for!"


	34. Inferno

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. The plot is. ** Reviewers will get a teaser since I basically couldn't stop where this chapter left off and have a good portion of 34 complete.**

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_Victoria__: from 'Victorius' for 'conqueror' or 'victor.'_

**Thirty-three**

The shelves of the Dresden library were metal racks, bare and industrial like the library itself. Row after row, marching one after the other, the narrow passages for patrons between them seemed almost an afterthought; it wasn't difficult to imagine the rows of shelves went on forever, pinpointing to a horizon in the distance. The books upon them were generally neatly stacked, but in places where a tome had been pulled free, the paperbacks slumped at an angle, disrupting the geometric lines that filled my vision.

I had thought I'd glimpsed Edward, a mistake that didn't seem so wild after the far too coincidental encounter with him the night before. My cheeks flushed, thinking of my drunken vulnerability, stumbling about like a lost little girl on the dark streets of Dresden. Distracted by the recollection of that walk, the feel of the cobblestones beneath my feet, the sound of Edward's surprised laughter, the brush of his fingers against my own as he took my room card from my hand…I didn't see the woman directly behind me, her stance strangely attentive.

"Oh!" My gasp was barely a word, my hand flying up in surprise—though, since she wasn't moving, there was no need to prevent our collision.

Her expression was so direct, not glancing away as anyone else would, green eyes frank in their examination of my features, my figure. "It's fine." The words were light but must have been forced, containing suspicion, betrayal…rage.

"You're very lucky I'm out of bullets." Viktoriya's voice was equally level now, carrying over the crackle of spreading fire and shrill car alarms. I shook my head, trying to break free of the too tangible memories of Dresden, the dusty smell of books rarely opened and bright fluorescent lights above—now was not the time to go into shock, retreating into a memory of how this had all started.

Viktoriya had raised her hand as she spoke and my fog abruptly dissipated upon seeing the dull black metal of the weapon in her hand. I sucked in a breath as bright red blood ran down the pale skin of her arm with the movement, crimson against cream. To my horror, she seemed not to notice, simply tossing the gun aside.

Still grasping the balustrade, my gaze darted one more time over the entrance hall, wondering where everyone could possibly have gone. As if reading my mind, Viktoriya spoke again, a smile evident in her words, "No one is coming to save you—Demitri made sure of that." She turned to the stairs, her movements deliberate and measured—but all too fast to my eyes.

I glanced down again, wondering if it was at all possible for me to survive a leap over the edge. Knowing I would never land on my feet, I darted towards the gym, conscious thought departing in the instinctive rush to find shelter, safety—to escape the mad woman now striding up the steps in pursuit of me.

I managed to throw wide the bathroom door where the secret entrance for the panic room was located when heat and weight fell on me from behind. I flew into the opposite wall as hands wrapped around my shoulders, fingers digging into my collar bones as soft laughter burst against my ear.

"Oh, no you don't!" As if from a distance I registered that her accent was tinged with a British inflection, her grammar free of the errors I'd grown accustomed to hearing Rozalina make. Of course she would be fluent—she was likely brilliant to have been accepted as a graduate student at Charles University, our interests the same… our desires the same.

I didn't realize I was speaking, the words growing from a whisper to a cry as I writhed in her grasp, "No, no, no, no, no!" She was trying to drag me backwards out of the room…to where I didn't know. I struggled, hands wrapping around her wrists, trying to break the fierce grip of her fingers on my clothing and skin.

At my resistance, Viktoriya's hold intensified, nails digging into my flesh, the muscles of her arms locking around my shoulders. "You are coming with me." She spoke in breathless bursts, fighting to walk backwards like a lifeguard rescuing a flailing swimmer; my feet, clad only in socks, scrambled and slipped upon the tiled floor.

We were nearly to the bathroom door and I knew only a short trip through the gym to the mezzanine. Gasping, eyes rolling, I threw out my arms as I realized I couldn't break her grip, knuckles going white as I hung onto the frame in desperation. "No!" I exhaled, throwing my weight forward, trying to free myself from her insane grasp.

Viktoriya grunted, unable to drag me any farther, the sound frustrated and angry against my hair. I knew the deadlock couldn't last and felt her foot hook around my calf as if preparing to sweep me off my feet. I instinctively lunged forward again, knowing I would have only a second in which she would be vulnerable, unsteady on one leg.

The surge of adrenaline I felt when it worked, when her hands loosened from my shoulders and I was able to break free of her grasp, nearly put a smile of relief on my lips—but the abrupt force of my lunge sent me flying to the opposite wall, knees banging against the toilet, a gasp of pain replacing the relief. Viktoriya's shriek of rage echoed in the small space and I turned to see her hurling towards me again, completely relentless.

I didn't throw up my hands in defense, tight fists ready to return her blows, or bear my nails to scratch her to pieces. I had never been in a fight in my life—had never been attacked or threatened, had never taken self-defense classes as a preventative measure. I was a scholar, a nerd, a quiet, retiring mouse who could never have imagined these circumstances.

Though my heart was pounding, adrenaline pumping from the recesses of my body to expand blood vessels and increase lung capacity to aid in fight or flight…I couldn't fight. And I was utterly cornered, unable to flee. So I cowered, cringing against the wall, crying out as her hands seized my hair, dragging my face close to hers as if for a kiss.

But no sweet words came from her lips, hot breath rushing against my cheeks as she growled, "You are making me angry!" Her hands abruptly jerked backwards and I saw stars as my head collided with the tiled wall behind me.

I flailed weakly as my knees wobbled, trying to keep from falling as my head swam. I realized seconds later I was grasping Viktoriya's shoulders, sagging against the very person who meant me harm. She seemed not to note the irony, fingers digging into my chin as she demanded, "Wake up. You have something to see."

I cringed away from her touch, drawing my arms over my breasts, trying to get away from the close, threatening warmth of her body. "Come!" she snapped, her voice seeming to echo through the fog of my throbbing head, thick and distant to my ears. Her next words were spoken in a near mutter but might have been shouted for how they snapped me from my befuddled state. "I don't know what he could see in you…"

My eyes shot open, my entire body beginning to tremble with the sudden anger that filled my limbs. Rapid breaths rushed in and out of my lungs, chest heaving with the movement. Viktoriya was attempting to get a grip on my upper arms, her expression one of focus and concentration, uncaring of my emotional state. My gaze darted around the miniscule space, the single overhead light glinting off the clean white tile and full length mirror on the near wall. Frustration joined my fury at knowing the panic room was useless to me with my attacker in such close quarters.

Yet…

I couldn't take time to think, my arms shooting out so violently that Viktoriya could not react, shoving her with the full force of my being, unable to believe that the grunt of rage accompanying the movement had come from me. Caught off guard, she stumbled away—only a few steps but enough to allow me the space to push off the wall behind me, spin on my heel, and shove her again—towards the mirrored door that concealed the panic room.

My luck held out as she reacted as I anticipated, throwing her arms up as if to break her fall against the deadly glass. Instead, her weight barely hit the mirror before it was sinking into the wall, her feet flying from beneath her as she continued to tumble into the dim space of the panic room.

I spun again, running from the bathroom as quickly as my feet could carry me, adrenaline surging as a choked scream of total fury sounded behind me. I was across the threshold, the wood inlay of the mezzanine beneath my feet, when a sudden, agonizing blow struck my back, knocking all the air from my lungs as white exploded across my vision.

I hit the floor, gasping and choking for air, hands instinctively clawing at my back, trying to make the sting go away. Through the intense halo of pain that seemed to be radiating from my kidneys, writhing on the floor in a futile attempt to just make it stop hurting, I realized there was no dampness, no blood…what had she done to me?

Through the slits of my eyes, small feet crept across the floor, delighted laughter mixing with the wounded groans I suddenly realized were coming from me. "You thought you could get away?" she trilled. Through blurred vision, I realized she was stooping, picking something up—something heavy. Helpless tears seeped from my eyes as I realized she'd chucked one of the metal dumb bells at me, that I could very well have internal bruising or broken ribs—and that she cared nothing for my life, my humanity…and would stop at nothing to hurt me.

Warm breath pushed against my temple, soft lips just brushing the sensitive skin there as small fingers threaded gently through my hair. "Open your eyes, Bella."

I tried to restrain my whimpers, palms pressed against the throbbing pain of my back, eyes flickering open to see Viktoriya's ivory complexion, green gaze inches from my own. "I have something I want you to see, but if you try to run again," she shifted, showing me the dull, steel weight in her hand. "I will not hesitate to beat you with this."

She did not bother to wait for a reply, her hand tightening in my hair as she straightened to her full height. I cried out as my head rose unwillingly from the floor, hands instinctively flying to her wrist; fresh tears pricked my eyes at the sharp pain shooting from my scalp. "Don't, no," the words were weak cries and I fought the defeat even I could hear in my voice.

A second detonation exploded through the house, my entire body flinching at the shocking sound. As I gasped for breath, I realized that the blast seemed to have come from the back, window panes rattling, debris clattering down upon the roof. Viktoriya stilled momentarily and I felt a brief stab of hope that she might let me go—might flee for her life. The emotion quickly died as she spoke brightly, her voice carrying over the newly shrilling car alarms and crackle of fire, "That'll be my warning bell!"

Heedless of my clumsy struggling, Viktoriya dragged me when I would not crawl, her fist so tightly wrapped in my hair that I could only grasp at her wrist, knowing I'd lose chunks of scalp if I tried to wrench free. She continued to speak as she descended the stairs from the mezzanine with measured steps, her accented voice bright and merry. "Mitya—Demitri—is waiting for us. And you can probably guess we do not have much time. The tear gas will be dissipating soon—"

"Tear gas?" I panted, flinching as my back made contact with the edge of a step.

"Of course, silly," she replied as though we were discussing the weather rather than chemical grade weapons. "The car bomb drew everyone from the house and the tear gas kept them from coming back inside."

The screeching of tires that had preceded the explosion echoed in my ears like a gunshot, my eyes flaring wide as I grasped uselessly at her wrist. "Car bomb," I whispered dumbly. Could Emmett have possibly planned for that? Even after he knew a former K.G.B. agent was involved?

"It was remote controlled so the guards at each end of the street had already signaled for assistance—as would I if I saw a car with no driver speeding along!" Her laughter was like a bird, bright and delighted. My skin went cold at further evidence of her utter insanity, and at the violent forces I was up against.

Viktoriya paused as we reached the bottom step, her green gaze falling to my pained, tear-streaked features with the sly smile of someone sharing an amusing secret. "Little did they know I was in the back seat. I practiced jumping out at the last second all week!" I realized it wasn't simply pain that was making her heart shaped face appear to swim in and out of focus—a hazy pall continued to swirl into the entrance hall through the front door, the smell of gasoline tinging the air.

A sound between a gasp and a squeak escaped my lips as she abruptly continued forward, dragging me towards the dining room. A huff of exasperation burst from her mouth as I stumbled in my awkward crawl along the entrance hall tiles, as if I were a recalcitrant dog slowing her down. My scalp smarted, eyes stinging with fresh tears and the grit that was coloring my surroundings in a gray haze.

As she turned into the dining room, I sucked in a shocked breath. I saw Edward first, his body sagging, one hand clinging to the arm circling his throat from behind. A startled yelp followed the gasp as I registered the face over his shoulder, my brain failing to make sense of the dark shapes and planes peering in my direction…before I realized that his captor was wearing a gas mask. Like some post-apocalyptic nightmare, every aspect of the man's expression was obscured by the filter and nozzle, a cipher gazing blankly towards Viktoriya and me, his goggles only reflecting the haze around us. "Edward," I cried, though his name was lost to the wail of sirens that had joined the car alarms and crackling fires in the cacophony beyond the safe house walls.

I tried to move forward but Viktoriya mercilessly yanked back, her fist tightening its grip in my hair. I cried out, my vision narrowing to a pinpoint upon Edward's battered frame.

Blood trickled from his lip and down his chin, his mouth agape as if he was struggling for air, the arm around his throat likely constricting his breathing as well as keeping him upright. His shirt had pulled free from one side of his trousers, the collar gaping from buttons torn loose. One hand feebly clung to the forearm circling his neck, his knuckles raw, while the other hung stiffly at his side, the angle impossibly awkward…A sob tore from my throat as I realized it wasterribly broken, my body lunging forward involuntarily, instinctively trying to help him, to protect him.

"Stupid girl!" Viktoriya cried, struggling to maintain her grip in my hair. A voice barked from the gas masked face, forced to shout to be heard over the din. Viktoriya responded and it was only then that I realized they were speaking Russian, the meaning lost to me as I gazed helplessly at Edward's hanging head.

"Edward," I whispered, reaching out a shaking hand, wanting in that second only to touch him…as it became all too clear that it might be the last thing I did.

Hot breath hissed against my ear as Viktoriya abruptly leaned down, wanting to be certain I heard her words. "So you see…you will lose exactly what I lost. I will take from you exactly what you took from me." My body began to shake as the masked man raised his other arm, concealed until that moment behind Edward's body, a gun tightly gripped in his gloved hand.

"Edward!" His name was a scream, straining both hands in his direction, mad with the realization that this was her goal—to make me watch him die.

I was possessed, uncaring of my stinging scalp, the throbbing pain still radiating from my back, clawing like a wild animal at the hand still tangled through my hair while lurching towards Edward.

For several stunned moments, I would think that I'd somehow summoned the strength to break free from Viktoriya's grasp, adrenaline pulsing through my veins, ears pounding with the force of my own heartbeat. Only when Edward miraculously fell towards me, as if shoved away from the masked man, did I realize that both Viktoriya and her partner had swiveled, their attention snatched away. I'd never fully risen from my crouched position, half on my knees, and fell to them now, arms desperately extended as Edward stumbled down to me. I rocked back from the force of his weight as he crumpled into my arms, fiercely clutching him close, burying my face in his throat as I shook with the weight of my fear and relief…fear from the knowledge that we were soon going to die…and relief because my last sight, the last touch I would feel, would be him.

It was only this relief that allowed my ears to discern the noise that had impelled Viktoriya and Demitri's immediate attention, the reality of our surroundings rushing back full force as I struggled to focus— to think of the possibility of getting away now that they were temporarily distracted. As I took refuge in holding Edward and scrambled to think of an escape, I became confused by the strangely loud blare of a cell phone ring tone, shrill above the hectic cacophony around us…sirens, voices shouting in Russian, the frighteningly close hiss of fire…a ringing too loud to be outside, too loud to be anywhere but very nearby—in the next room.

I peered up to see the dim outline of Viktoriya crouching behind one of the dining room chairs no more than three feet away, Demitri silhouetted just inside the doorway leading to the kitchen, gun raised. He pointed it into the smoky recesses of the kitchen, and I flinched and ducked my head as gunshots rang out. My hands fisted involuntarily in Edward's shirt, my cheek pressed to his, knowing it was incredibly unlikely we would make it out of this alive. He was too heavy for me to move quickly and too injured to move on his own, moaning softly when I tried to shift our combined weight. It was impossible our armed captors would fail to notice my feeble attempt at escape, having come too far and gone to so much effort to reach us. Despair and resignation filled me, chest heaving with silent sobs, knowing I could only kneel there and cradle Edward in my lap.

I held him tightly, all of the feelings I had for him welling inside, admiration, tenderness, protectiveness…and indescribable sadness that we would never grow old together. I struggled to blink back the tears in my eyes, wanting to see his face one last time, the green of his eyes however bleary with pain. The bark of frantic, angry shouting, the shriek of car alarms and fire engine sirens…it was all muted, a dim fog receding to the background as I pressed my lips to Edward's ear and whispered, "I love you."

Clawing hands were grabbing at my shoulders but I was locked around Edward as if melded to him, my body protectively folded over his…immune to the nails digging into my skin, the shouting in my ear…rocking us gently as I waited for the end.


	35. Salvation

Standard disclaimers apply. No teasers as we're now into the denoument. Thank you in advance for your reviews.

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**Thirty-four**

_salvation: __in religion, __salvation__ is the concept that, as part of divine providence, a God, or gods, saves people from some or all of the following:_

_-from biological death, by providing for them an eternal life__ or long-lasting afterlife._

_-from spiritual death, by providing divine law, illumination, and judgment__._

_-from divine punishment, particularly from Hell, by granting them acceptance into Heaven._

"I love you," I whispered again, eyes squeezed tight to the horror around us.

"I love you," I murmured, gunshots exploding so near that shrill ringing abruptly filled my ears, deafening me to all else. The chaos of sirens, the wailing alarms, the raging voices, they were all utterly silenced by the high pitched tone filling my head—

"I love you." Sudden warmth dampened my hair and the clawing hands fell away, only to be replaced seconds later by a touch that was somehow frantic and gentle at the same time.

"Edward, I love you." It was a litany, a prayer, unwilling to let him go, unable to loosen my grasp even after foreign hands brushed my hair back, cajoling and soft. I pressed my face more tightly to his throat, breathing in the smell of him, wanting only the feel of his skin against mine.

"I love you." My voice was a croak, the words lost to the ringing echoing through my head—but it didn't matter—nothing mattered but him. The gentle hands fell away but I did not loosen my hold on Edward, my only goal in this world to keep from being parted from him. I barely registered the cool metal slicing through my sleeve before dull pain pierced my arm.

"I love you." The fog was descending, my hands losing all strength, struggling to maintain my grip around his body. "Edward!" His name was a cry, my body afloat, beyond my control. "Edward…" The word was muted by the mask over my nose and mouth, weakly flailing as he disappeared, taken from me…

"Edward…" The ceiling above shrank to a single point of light before abruptly going out.

I was submerged, floating in darkness, adrift on waves of gentle water. As if making sense of this dark ocean, my mind fixated upon a single memory, lying beneath the still surface of clear bath water, only emerging when I could hold my breath no longer. Only this time I wasn't fighting the memories of my humiliation, struggling to forget the painful confrontation in the catacomb. Now Edward's voice surrounded me, a sweet comfort rather than torment, soothing and sad to my ears. I longed to respond but was drained, exhausted, my limbs held down by weights I couldn't see. If only I could speak to him…but he remained just out of reach, a phantom hovering on the edge of my vision, an arms length away…

When a steady beeping joined the murmur of Edward's voice, I realized the waters had begun to recede. Other noises joined the electronic blip, the rustle of paper, the scrape of chair legs against tile, the thrum of machines that are never turned off. I pushed through the darkness, struggling against the weight, opening gritty eyes to a blinding white light.

"Bella?" Edward's voice was hoarse and tantalizingly nearby.

"Edward…?" I was groggy, uncertain of where I was, my head seemingly filled with cotton, my pupils struggling to adjust to the fluorescents overhead.

"You're awake…oh, Bella…" Hands enfolded my own, the firm touch familiar though there was something foreign about the sensation, a strange, hard edge rough against my skin.

I fumbled to return his clasp and realized my arms were entangled with tubes, a nearby IV stand clattering with the movement. My vision adjusted, dim shapes taking on detail, and looked down to see the cast that reached from Edward's elbow to his palm. "Your arm…" I mumbled dumbly.

"Bella, I'm so sorry," he whispered. I turned my head and realized his chin was resting on my pillow, his face just inches away. I couldn't help closing my eyes again, certain I was dreaming.

"What happened?" Everything was so fuzzy, my mouth dry, a dull pain starting to penetrate the fog that had enveloped me for… "How long…?" I opened my eyes, trying to absorb that this was real.

"Two days," Edward quietly answered. My look of disbelief, jerking up from the pillows before aches and pains sent me sinking back, spurred him on. "You had a concussion…they think some swelling though the MRI didn't detect anything." The feeling of Viktoriya's hands in my hair returned with a sudden tangible force, my eyes squeezing shut as the horror of her attack returned…the house filled with smoke…the shriek of car alarms…

"Bella, love…it's over…everything's alright now." I didn't realize I was crying, tears silently falling from tightly closed lids, until I felt his fingers, rough against my temples, wiping them away.

I shook my head, unable to understand, fighting the recollections that were struggling to break through the fog. "Everything hurts," I finally managed to whisper, my throat impossibly dry.

Edward shook his head, green eyes exhausted as he looked away. "You have two fractured ribs…some internal bleeding…they weren't sure if they were going to be able to save your right kidney but the bleeding subsided…And we all had mild lung damage from inhaling the smoke from the fire."

My brow wrinkled, unable to understand. "We?" Did he mean Viktoriya and Demitri? Were they here in the hospital? I felt my pulse begin to race, the heart monitor's beep picking up to match my increasing panic.

"Rozalina—but she was discharged yesterday."

My eyes went wide, my heart rate slowing. "Rozalina was here?"

Edward's gaze cut away again, the planes of his face so filled with regret that I longed to reach out and touch his cheek. "She was in the pantry—I shoved her in there when I realized it was too late to make it to the panic room. I thought…if they were able to find me, they wouldn't search for her…that she'd be safe."

My frown only deepened, struggling to put the pieces together. "The guards…"

Edward looked up, his brow wrinkled with frustration. "I think Emmett can explain better than I can…I don't remember much after Demitri broke my arm…" His voice faltered and my hand tightened over his own, realizing he was likely trying to push away the reality of what had happened as much as I was.

"Okay," I whispered, weariness and dull pain seeming to radiate from my bones. I drank in Edward's face; though I knew I likely looked just as pained and tired, if not more so, his features were a revelation to me, a relief, the one thing I'd tried to cling to when everything was falling apart. "Edward…" I sighed.

The strain in his features eased, sensing my shift in mood, green eyes softening as he gazed down at me. "My swan of Stowe," he whispered.

His words were a trigger, fresh tears filling my eyes at the love and reverence in his voice. "I thought…" I gasped, barely able to breathe. "I thought I was going to lose you." I couldn't control my sobs, nearly blind with tears as the relief truly hit home.

Edward drew closer, his good arm weaving through the tubes and IVs to circle my neck, his cheek pressed to mine. "You're safe."

"_We're_ safe," I managed to exhale through my sobs, struggling to lift my entangled hands to return his embrace.

Edward's next words were a whisper against my ear, mimicking the confession I'd made when he laid in my arms, smoke and gunfire circling around. "I love you."

I wanted to respond in kind, I longed to say the words now that the danger was past, but could only sob harder, shaking with the force of my tears. Somehow, Edward knew, his lips pressing to my jaw softly before he spoke again. "I love you."

I don't know how long he held me, my eyes sinking shut with the relief of his nearness, his warmth, surrounding me. I drifted off with the knowledge of his presence, sinking into sleep rather than unconsciousness, secure in his arms.

"I think she's rousing." It was a whisper but there was no mistaking that deep bass, my eyes fluttering as I struggled to wake up.

"Emmett?" My voice was a croak.

"She needs water." That was Rozalina, her figure a blurry outline seated to my left. As my vision cleared, I saw she was frowning at me, ice blue eyes filled with concern as she leaned forward, a straw inches from my lips.

I lifted my head, eagerly drinking from the paper cup filled with water, my gaze turning to see Edward stretched out on a chaise in the corner. Shadows were apparent beneath his eyes, a thin blanket failing to cover his long frame.

"He has not left you," Rozalina's voice was, like Emmett's, a whisper, clearly trying to keep from waking him.

"Not since he was discharged from his own unit," Emmett added from his position in the doorway, turning his head as glanced at his long time friend. My eyes widened as I realized dressing swaddled Emmett's ear and extended down his neck, disappearing under his loose shirt.

"How do you feel?" My eyes shifted to Rozalina when she spoke again. I was relieved to see she didn't sport any obvious bandages, her corn silk hair pulled into its customary braid, blue eyes level as she waited for my response.

I finished sipping the water, licking my dry lips before speaking. "Terrible." Emmett chortled and I couldn't resist a surprised smile, shocked he could laugh in his condition.

"What happened?" I asked, thinking he would explain his injuries.

Instead, he shifted nervously on his feet, brown eyes falling to the floor as if unable to meet my gaze. "Bella…I owe you an apology. So many contingencies failed…"

"Emmett," I interrupted him, surprised that he felt at fault. "What are you talking about?"

"I should have known," his low voice was a plea, his gaze rising to meet mine. "Demitri's training…" I couldn't help shivering at the mention of the agent's name, my mind filled with the image of his gas masked figure, ominous and threatening.

"I don't understand," I murmured, struggling to remember. "There was an explosion…" I recalled the screech of tires and flying from the bedroom in a panic.

"The car bomb," Emmett nodded, stepping slightly further into the room. "The two guards stationed at the end of each block notified us of the approach. The guard in the control room positioned himself in the front hall…and didn't see Demitri on the roof."

My eyes went wide as the memories came back, the shout of confused voices, the shaking of the window panes and clatter of debris on the roof—it had likely effectively hidden the sound of a person clambering over the shingles. "But how…?"

"We think he approached the roof from that of a neighboring house—climbed the gutter unseen by an unsuspecting resident, then leapt over to the safe house undetected." He took a deep breath, his expression ashamed. "This potential approach is why there's a camera up there in the first place…but with the unoccupied car approaching the house—"

"A decoy," I murmured.

"But it wasn't," Emmett's voice was earnest, angry, fists clenching at his sides even now. "They drove it directly into the gate—it was a weapon in itself." Edward stirred and Emmett glanced worriedly in his direction before finally fully entering the room. As he came closer, I could see his brows were singed, the hairs short and sparse over his eyes. He sank nervously into the chair Edward had occupied earlier, clearly tense and full of contrition.

"Emmett," I tried to comfort him. It wasn't his fault—how could he not see that?

But he didn't let me continue, speaking before I could form the words. "Viktoriya was in the car—it was incredibly risky. If she'd jumped out even a second too late, she would have been caught in the explosion." I closed my eyes, remembering her confession as she'd dragged me down the stairs, so triumphant as she admitted to having practiced the maneuver all week.

"She somarsaulted out right before the bomb detonated—our guy stationed in the hall got off one shot before the explosion made it impossible to see." The blood dripping down Viktoriya's arm was as vivid to me as this room, Emmett's tormented gaze, Edward's sleeping body curled in the corner. "And she was firing on the two exterior guards—grazed one but her shots were mostly wild, clearly just trying to provide cover while she got into the house."

"But the guard in the hall…?" There was no accusation in my voice, only confusion, trying to make sense of the sequence of events.

"There was gunfire at the back of the house," Emmett quietly explained.

"Demitri on the roof," Rozalina added.

"I needed the guard to provide cover…and the moment we were both beyond the threshold, Demitri released the tear gas cannisters, rappeled down the roof while firing a semi-automatic weapon, and was inside before we realized what was going on."

Emmett sighed, a heaving breath so tortured that Rozalina rose from her seat and rounded my bed, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I called for back up but we were both already reacting to the tear gas—and now there were shots coming at us from the doorway—we couldn't get back inside."

If I had thought I'd endured a nightmarish situation, Emmett's perspective sounded no different, trapped outside the safe house he'd worked so hard to make impenetrable, ducking for cover from the gunfire coming from the mud room, coughing and nearly blind with tear gas.

Rozalina picked up the story, offering her version of events. "Edward said there is not time to reach panic room—he forced me into pantry."

I nodded, recalling what he'd told me before I'd fallen asleep in his arms.

Rozalina's gaze fell, staring down at her hand on Emmett's shoulder, her expression pained. "It was terrible—I could hear…fighting, a struggle. Then I realized," her gaze lifted and I could sense her hope even now. "I had my mobile phone."

"The ringing," I whispered, trying to rise from my pillows then grimacing as pain shot through my rib cage with the movement.

"Not at first," Emmett frowned up at Rozalina, singed brows low over his eyes. "She was texting me—telling me where she was and that she could hear Edward's voice, that he was alive."

I couldn't help my shudder at how close this had come to not being true. "Then everything was quiet—the fighting was finished. I listened…" She was silent for a moment, remembering. "Then Demitri said…" Rozalina's voice faltered, the hope extinguished. "He said, 'Let's find Viki so I can blow your brains out.'"

My hand lifted to my mouth involuntarily, the IV stand clattering with the movement. Rozalina frowned, sensing my distress. "We should not speak of this now—" she began.

"No!" I protested, wanting to know more, wanting to understand what had happened. My exclamation, however, had woken Edward, his eyes flickering open before he shifted on the chaise, the blanket falling to the floor.

"Emmett," he groggily spoke as his eyes lighted on the couple, running a hand through his hair before he rose unsteadily to his feet.

"Edward," I exhaled, reaching a hand toward him. "They were just…filling in the holes for me."

He frowned, as if sensing the distress I'd felt earlier. "Are you sure you're up for that?"

"We're safe now, aren't we?" I tried to smile, my gaze pleading with him to let Emmett and Rozalina continue.

It wasn't to be. A passing nurse paused in the doorway, her attention clearly arrested by the number of people and activity in my room. Her bright voice interrupted before Edward could respond. "Mr. Masen said you were awake earlier and I wasn't quite sure whether to believe him!" I was caught off guard by her English accent and was abruptly reminded that I was in another country.

The nurse moved past Emmett and Rozalina to fiddle with my IV cart, efficient and brusque as she straightened my bedding. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I insisted, gaze darting to Edward, who had drifted from his chaise to the foot of the bed, a frown still hovering over his brow.

"We'll get some food in here so you can enjoy a solid meal—if you feel up to it?"

"Sure," I nodded my head quickly, agreeing to anything if it would allow us to continue our conversation. As the fog in my head had cleared, as the details were shared, my curiosity had only grown—my own memories mixing with the perspectives of the others to form a picture of exactly what had happened.

"I'll have something sent right in," she smiled, oblivious to my impatience. Then, turning to Emmett she placed a hand on her hip. "And shouldn't you be heading down to the burn unit to get those dressings changed, Mr. McCarty?"

Emmett looked appropriately scolded, shoulders drooping with resignation. "You tell to me you go already!" Rozalina exclaimed, blue eyes narrowing.

"Okay, okay…" Emmett acquiesced, rising from his seat to follow the nurse from the room.

"Your lunch will be delivered shortly!" she called over her shoulder before disappearing down the unseen corridor.

Sudden tears pricked my eyes for the normalcy of the exchange…Rozalina giving Emmett a hard time, huffing out an exasperated breath even now…but for his bandages, we could have been anywhere. Seeing my emotional state, Rozalina's gaze filled with concern. "It is too much for you."

"No," I protested again. "I'm just so glad…" It took me a moment to realize the reason behind my tears, inhaling deeply as I tried to regain control of myself. "I'm so glad we're all okay."

Edward smiled gently, moving forward to take Emmett's vacant spot, reaching out with his good hand to hold my own.

When I'd managed to recover, I turned my gaze to Edward, my curiosity unabating. "Rozalina said she could hear you fighting with—with Demitri."

Edward snorted, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. "Always so stubborn and inquisitive."

I tugged playfully at his hand, fighting a smile at his exasperation. "As are you, Edward."

Edward sighed, realizing I wasn't going to let the topic go. When he spoke, a frown had found its way to his brow again, green gaze falling to our joined hands. "It wasn't much of a fight. I got in a few blows—trying to get the gun out of his hands—"

I couldn't help interjecting, "You could have been killed!"

His lips twisted wryly. "It didn't matter in the end—he landed a few taps on my chin and I was reeling."

I squeezed his hand involuntarily as I tried to keep from picturing the fight. "He was trying to get me out of the kitchen—pushing and pulling me toward the dining room. I struggled…for what reason I don't know. I didn't want to...to just follow meekly along."

I couldn't help my lips thinning, thinking of my own reaction to Viktoriya's attempts to drag me out of the bathroom.

"That's when he broke my arm," Edward finished quietly. I flinched at his words, my eyes flying to his cast, my own injuries seeming to throb in sympathy. "Everything is hazy after that."

Rozalina, arms crossed over her chest, broke in, "They must shout…the car alarms, the fire engines." I nodded, remembering their Russian exchange bellowed over my head. "I heard—in the pantry." She paused, eyes downcast. "Viktoriya say she speak to you—then Demitri will shoot Edward." I felt tears gather in my own eyes as Rozalina's voice cracked. "I am texting Emmett and he is saying to me the tear gas make him blind, there is no cover, back up is coming…but I know there is no time."

"The ringing phone," I whispered. Rozalina nodded avidly.

"I tell to Emmett I set off ringer on my phone…to try to distract Demitri…to make them afraid of guard nearby."

"But it was just you in the pantry," Edward smiled, his gaze full of admiration and gratefulness for her bravery.

"Demitri shot at you!" I cried, suddenly remembering.

"I lay on floor first," she shrugs, as if it was nothing. I couldn't breathe for the danger she'd been in, wanting to thank her, wanting to shake her for her foolhardiness, and wanting to hug her tightly for somehow coming out unscathed.

"I'm so glad you're okay," I finally exhaled.

"Mostly," Rozalina's smile was crooked. I frowned, failing to understand. "One bullet—it graze my back."

"Rozalina!" I cried, then winced as my ribs protested the exclamation.

She shrugged again, as if it were no more concerning than a scratch. Edward was stroking my hand, trying to get me to calm down. "In any case," he continued, his voice soothing, "Emmett realized he could't wait, that he had to act." Edward paused, shaking his head ruefully. "I understand he wrapped his shirt around his head to ward off the tear gas, rounded to the front of the house—" My mouth gaped at the thought of Emmett unleashing his inner Rambo, eyes wide with awe. "And ran through the fire resulting from the car bomb—"

My brow furrowed with confusion. "Why didn't he come through the back door?" Wouldn't there have been tear gas alone clouding the entrance to the mud room—no flames, no smoke?

"Demitri had a grenade. He threw it into the mud room—the roof collapsed, there was fire and smoke—it was impossible to enter that way."

"The second explosion," I whispered, remembering Viktoriya's lack of anxiety at the sound. It had been her warning bell—and a means of keeping the guards, emergency services and any back up at bay. "Jesus," I added, my eyes focusing on Edward and Rozalina's somber expressions. It was harder and harder to believe we'd all gotten out alive. I squeezed Edward's hand as if to reassure myself it was real—he was real.

"He knew he couldn't just open fire—that you and I…and Rozalina were all still inside. Apparently Demitri got off one shot before Emmett returned fire and Viktoriya was trying to grab you…grab us…" His voice faltered, his hand squeezing almost painfully around my fingers.

My eyes grew impossibly wider, realizing what he was saying, what they were telling me. "You mean…" I didn't realize the tension that had still marked my muscles, my bones…until I began to understand exactly what Emmett had done.

Edward sensed my shock, leaning forward to caress my arm. "They're gone, Bella."

I was shaking violently, suddenly blind with fresh tears. "You thought…?" Rozalina began, at a loss at the strength of my response.

"They're in jail…or the hospital…" I sobbed, barely able to catch my breath. Edward shifted forward, nearly out of his seat, and pulled me into his arms.

"No, Bella," he corrected me softly, his lips a whisper against my ear. "They're gone."


	36. Resolution

**Disclaimer**: Characters are not mine but the plot is. Thank you so much for your patience and your reviews. One more chapter to go.

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**Thirty-five**

"…_nothing in this world now affords me delight. I do not know what there is now left for me to do or why I am still here, all my hopes in this world being now fulfilled."_

_-Saint Monica to Augustine_

The phone had apparently been ringing nonstop since the story began running on the BBC. Of course, it had taken some time and likely the exchange of money before the facts were roughly guessed at. First reported as an unexplained explosion potentially attributed to a gas leak, the story transformed when on-site reporters noted special forces police on the scene. The speculations ranged from a terrorist cell that had somehow set off its munitions stores to a domestic dispute gone horribly violent. Fortunately, the mix of N.E.X. security and constables first arrived to the street were able to keep the news vans at bay, but Emmett surmised someone had leaked details of our hospital admissions when the phones began exploding with inquiries.

"There's no way ITV and Sky 1 and…Christ…the Associated Press could have any clue we had anything to do with what occurred at the safe house without someone having spilled the beans." He sighed heavily as his phone began vibrating again with another call from a number he didn't recognize.

"It can't be helped," Edward replied, his shoulder lifting with the slightest shrug.

"I bet it was one of the nurses here at the hospital—I know that brunette had it in for me," Emmett muttered, brows mutinously low.

"If you listen about your dressings," Rozalina began to admonish, a gentle hand resting on his curls.

Emmett huffed in exasperation and she wisely refrained from continuing.

Mixed in with the calls from obnoxious journalists, morning show producers, and curiosity seekers were frantic messages from my dad and Alice.

"Thank God you're okay! I was about to call the airline—"

"Oh, no, Dad—don't do that! We already have tickets for Saturday." It was Edward's phone at my ear as no one had been able to recover the device he'd bought me from the safe house; while Emmett had access, he'd confessed the place was so smoke and water damaged that it was unlikely they'd be able to salvage much of anything. I couldn't quite feel upset about it, wanting more than anything to forget the entire nightmare.

"Why not sooner?" Charlie asked, concern still evident in his voice. My gaze darted to Edward, who watched me with pinched features from the chair at my bedside.

"I'm not yet out of the hospital—I'll be discharged tomorrow they think. And Emmett has some leads on Viktoriya he wants to resolve before we hit the road. It isn't as if coming to London is a day trip, after all…" I didn't admit that my own curiosity was keeping me here, unwilling to leave without trying to understand, to make sense of what had happened.

"I'm going to meet you at the airport, Bells." The firmness of Charlie's voice brooked no argument. I glanced up at the television that had been flickering with stories of my supposed escape from kidnapping…a home invasion…a crazed, heavily armed stalker…None of it quite right, though some details glanced close enough to the truth that Emmett had requested guards remain at the semi-destroyed safe house to prevent any scavenging.

Would reporters be waiting for us at SeaTac? I shook my head, unwilling to imagine my dad in the melee. Whispering to Edward, I requested the details or our arrival, then repeated the flight numbers and times to Charlie at a normal volume.

Alice was not nearly so calm. "What the fuck, Bella? !"

"It's a long story—" I tried to begin as Edward frowned at the phone in my hand, her voice audible to his ears.

"Our guard won't tell us anything—Jasper was about ready to punch him out—"

"Jasper? !" I gasped, unable to imagine the easy-going professor as anything other than congenial and conciliatory.

"And I couldn't get through to Charlie for hours…" His single land line—without call waiting—had likely been equally tied up with trying to get in touch with me, with Interpol, with N.E.X., with anyone who might have a clue as to what had happened. "You promise you're safe now?" Alice finally reached the end of her rant, the genuine concern in her voice causing my heart to contract that she cared so deeply…and with guilt for making her worry.

"They're dead, Alice," I responded quietly. I saw Edward's chin drop in my peripheral vision and blindly reached out for his hand. I knew he still felt guilty that his involvement with Viktoriya had somehow unleashed this entire ordeal on our heads. I'd tried to reassure him multiple times that it wasn't his fault...but my words seemed not to matter, his continuing contrition revealing itself in these small reactions.

"You're sure?"

"Emmett himself verified their identities." I didn't yet want to share that Emmett had been responsible for their deaths, unsure what Alice's response might be. Having been directly threatened, I could only be grateful. But the various reports and news items that had found their way onto the television in my hospital room questioned the violent end, speculating about extreme force and insinuating that American vigilantism was to blame for the deaths of the two foreigners whose names had thankfully been withheld from the press.

Alice's sigh blew through the line before she spoke up again. "And when will you be home? We're definitely going to meet you at the airport." I exhaled wearily, realizing her voice was as insistent as Charlie's, turning my gaze to Edward to request the flight information again. It appeared we were going to have quite the homecoming.

First, however, was the matter of my discharge from the hospital. Though I stubbornly resisted the wheelchair Edward pushed into the room for a solid ten minutes, I lost the battle when Emmett scooped me up off my feet and planted me in the seat. Before I could voice any further protest, Edward spun the chair on its wheels and began rapidly pushing me down the hall away from the main elevator. "We're exiting through the staff entrance since there are a few journalists and photographers still gathered outside."

"You'd think they'd have given up by now," Emmett muttered. Rozalina was at his side, hurrying after us as we approached another exit sign lit up in red. After several more turns, we finally reached a small elevator not meant for carting patients between floors, Rozalina and Emmett barely able to squeeze in around the wheelchair.

"Still think this thing was a good idea?" I looked up to Edward, a brow raised as I gestured to the stupid chair.

"A better idea than wandering around Dresden with no phone and no sense of direction."

"You will never let that go, will you?" I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Never." I could hear the smile in his voice but refused to look up, glaring at the elevator doors as Emmett struggled to muffle a chuckle.

Thankfully, an electronic ping announced we'd arrived at the ground floor. Edward rapidly pushing me into a corridor filled with people in scrubs and on to a glass-doored exit. I managed to scoot off the chair into the silver sedan waiting at the curb, refusing to give either Edward or Emmett the chance to pick me up again. I could hear Edward's sigh as I slammed the door behind me, a faint smile tilting my lips.

"So stubborn," he murmured as he opened the opposite door and slid onto the bench seat.

"You love it," Emmett remarked as he settled into the front passenger seat. Rozalina was wedged between him and the driver, who I could easily discern was an N.E.X. guard—the ex-military buzz cut and ear piece instantly gave him away.

We were soon swimming through streets clogged with traffic, my attention distracted by the maze of tiny foreign cars darting down the wrong side of the lane. I recalled that I'd slept on the ride from the airport to the safe house, exhausted after being unable to sleep on the plane. It was no wonder then that these London streets were new to me, especially considering there had been no chance to leave the safe house after learning of Demitri's involvement. Though the thought of his name still made me shudder, I realized the tension that seemed to have haunted my muscles for ages was now curiously absent, my shoulders loose, my breathing even despite the soreness still evident in my ribs. After all, this was the first time in weeks I hadn't been racked with worry about the safety of my loved ones…or myself.

The driver turned down a narrow, cobblestoned alley and I saw we were going to continue evading the press, approaching our new place of residence from the rear. Despite the unassuming doors leading into what was clearly a service entrance, I could tell from the high brick façade and arched Georgian windows that it was no humble little hostelry. "The Carlton Towers," Edward explained, as if the name might have meaning for me.

"You could never settle for a Best Western," I teased.

"I don't know if he has any idea what that is," Emmett interjected as we climbed out of the car. The security guard handed the keys to a valet who had appeared without my notice, then led the way inside.

"I do, too," Edward grumbled, his fingers lacing through mine as he tugged me along.

I couldn't resist landing a kiss on his cheek, so thankful to be in a position to poke fun at his little pomposities. I had a vague idea of the divide between us as far as income was concerned and could only mock that which I could not change…and which I knew, to some extent, made him uncomfortable given his history with women and the various sycophants he'd encountered in his youth. "I even stayed at one during spring break," he broke into my musings, a mischievous glint in his eye.

I was unable to respond, uncertain whether he was perpetuating the joke or being sincere…then distracted by the opulence of our surroundings. We'd turned from the service corridors into space clearly intended only for hotel guests, the rich carpets beneath our feet muting all sound, an ornate mirror framed in gilt at the end of the hall reflecting our motley group as we approached the elevator bank.

The security guard scanned ahead as we arrived at our floor, even going so far as to check over our rooms before ushering Edward and me inside. With a wave, Emmett and Rozalina continued down the hall, promising to see us first thing in the morning.

The door closed behind us, locking us in cushioned quiet. My gaze darted around the room, barely taking in the tufted back armchairs and the French doors leading into the bedroom. I couldn't absorb the details, my suspicion piqued by the diligence of the guard…a feeling of dread in my stomach giving away my fear that I might be in the dark about…something, anything. Sensing my misgivings, Edward hurriedly explained, "I don't fear for our safety—not any longer." He grasped my hands, pulling me near. "But I don't want to risk a hotel maid or concierge having tipped off the press as to our presence here." He lifted his hands to my shoulders, trying to reassure me.

I searched his gaze and found only guileless sincerity there. I inhaled, gaze falling, relieved— though I felt a bit embarrassed at my continued lack of trust in him. My thoughts quickly shifted, though, lips twisting as I told myself that I could likely handle a nosey journalist—especially after everything we'd been through. Sensing my burgeoning dissent, Edward cut me off at the pass. "I have no doubt you could send Barbara Walters packing in the blink of an eye, but I'd rather not put either one of us through that if it can be avoided."

I hesitated a silent moment then finally relented, shoulders sagging. A deep breath reminded me that my ribs were still sore and that I should be glad he was trying to protect me…protect both of us. "Thank you," I replied simply.

"And you're sure you want to go through with this tomorrow? Emmett's relatively certain—"

"Yes," I firmly replied, my gaze level as I met his eyes.

Emmett's leads had been more substantial than I had realized at the time that I'd spoken to my father. While I'd been reluctantly sharing my flight information with Alice and Charlie, Emmett had been working with the special police forces and N.E.X. to follow up on various pieces of evidence, and had solidly confirmed Viktoriya's presence at the location we'd be visiting in the morning. "I have to…see," I attempted to explain, my gaze falling to my feet.

Edward pulled me close, the smell of him filling my nose as my cheek pressed close to his shirt front. I returned his embrace, wrapping my arms around his waist, sensing that he understood, relieved that I didn't have to explain further.

His lips pressed into my hair, a gesture that had grown familiar over the weeks that we'd spent confined together—first in his penthouse, then the safe house, and now, over the past few days, the brightly lit space of my hospital room. Of course in the hospital, he'd been limited to this type of affection, the pressure of lips against my hair, my temple, the back of my hand, the stroke of his fingers against my forearm, the inside of my wrist, the curve of my neck. But now we were alone.

I couldn't resist pulling him closer, my fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt, inhaling deeply despite the pain in my ribs, reveling in the scent of him.

"Bella…" Edward's voice broke the quiet, a note of reluctance evident in his tone.

I stilled, surprised, before exclaiming, "I swear to God, Edward, if you tell me I'm not well enough after just having been discharged, I don't know what I'll do!" The words were nearly a growl, my brows knitting together as I lifted my head to meet his eyes.

I was rewarded by the glint of humor in his gaze before he burst out laughing. I glowered at him though my own lips were twitching. I opened my mouth to argue further but he silenced me with a swift kiss…a kiss that instantly changed from an attempt to keep me from speaking to utter intensity.

"Edward," I managed to murmur against his mouth, before his tongue surged past my lips, tasting, savoring, as if he could drink me dry. I groaned in response, wrapping my arms around his neck, sucking at his bottom lip, stumbling as he shifted, urging me backwards…I mistakenly thought towards the bed until I felt the low seat of one of the armchairs behind my knees.

The room spun and I gasped as the kiss was broken, then tumbled into Edward's lap with the realization that he'd simply sat down, his green eyes hungry and expectant as he looked up at me.

"Bella," he murmured into my throat, his arms sliding around my waist as my knees found their way to either side of his hips. I smiled against his temple, thrilled he wanted me as much as I wanted him…that his protest had been superficial at best.

Then the thought was gone as his right hand slipped under my shirt and found the weight of my breast, a gasp caught in my throat. I leaned down to kiss him, swallowing the sound, unable to control the jerk of my hips as his fingers reached my nipple, toying with the sensitive nub through the cotton of my bra. My hands were in his hair, sliding down to his nape, pulling him ever closer, struggling to intensify the kiss.

Edward's other hand snuck beneath my shirt, more awkward in its cast but insistent in reaching my flesh. My hips jerked again and I groaned as I felt the evidence of his arousal against the heavy seam of my jeans. I began to pick at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling with the small shell discs, grunting in frustration as I failed to get more than two open. I felt his smile before his hands fell away, reaching down between us to tear the shirt over his head.

It was my turn to smile, realizing that the brightness and excitement in Edward's gaze was likely reflected in my own. The world abruptly shifted and I squealed, throwing my arms around his neck as he lifted me up, carrying me to the bed. I laughed as I bounced on the mattress, then squealed again as he began tugging at my jeans. "These…" he grunted, struggling to pull them off despite the fact that I was still struggling to unbutton them, "are in the way!"

Then he was on top of me, his arms a cage, his breath hot against my face before his lips found mine again. My hands sought out the muscles of his back, caressing, pulling him closer, luxuriating in the feel of skin and tendon, the strength of him. "Oh, Edward…"

He reared away, but only to tug at his own jeans, fumbling with the motion due to the stiff angle at which the cast forced him to hold his wrist. I reached up, easily slipping loose the button and lowering his fly. My gaze caught his at that moment and I felt my cheeks flush hotly at the intense look of want in his eyes, bright and on fire for me.

Edward's body covered mine before I could think, before I could speak, skin on skin, unbelievably warm, lips dragging along my throat, my collar bones, pushing aside the straps of my bras before I closed my eyes, lost to the sensation. He pulled away only a moment, fetching the condom from the pocket of his jeans, before his body shadowed mine again. I reached for him, following his motions, smoothing the condom along his length. My own breath shuddered in my lungs, panting as he fell to his forearms, lips covering mine as he pushed into me.

"Edward…" I moaned against his lips, hips lifting, my body hungering for him more than I could have ever realized until that moment.

"Bella…" The same pleasure and hunger was evident in Edward's voice, the word a groan against my throat. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, desperate for him, hips lifting, falling, lifting, matching him, meeting him.

The muscles in my belly tightened, my legs trembling as I struggled to keep pace, hands slipping in the sweat that had formed on his skin. "Edward!" My pace lost time with his, consumed with a frantic need for him, struggling to breathe as my eyes flared wide. The sight of him above me, features lost in the same sensations, sent me hurtling over the edge, shuddering as he sank into me, impossibly deep.

Edward held me close as I recovered my breath, my legs lazily twining about his hips. Only when he began to move again did I realize he was still aroused, my breath catching in my throat as my body flared to life again.

Hours later, a loud, insistent rumble sounded from my stomach, reminding me of the world beyond our bed, our room. "Hungry, love?" Edward grinned at me, ceasing the lazy trace of his fingers upon my shoulder.

"I guess," I muttered, reluctant to disturb our idle.

"Don't worry—no need to get up," he smiled up at me as I rose from my position, cradled against his chest in the nest of pillows and duvet. I lifted a brow, failing to understand. "Room service, silly." He raised a brow in turn. "Or don't they have that at Best Westerns?"

"You!" I exclaimed ineffectually, reaching for a pillow to thump him.

Such easy humor felt impossibly distant as we made our way down narrow, winding lanes beneath dreary skies, the entire car silent as Emmett drove to the supposed base camp Viktoriya and Demitri had used.

"You're certain?" Edward's voice was a whisper, his hand squeezing my own where it rested between us in the back seat.

I nodded mutely though I was no longer sure, eyes wide as the car passed decrepit warehouses behind chain link fences, the unmistakable smell of river mixing with the fog that still wisped near the Thames.

The neighborhood appeared almost entirely abandoned—perhaps due to the fact that it was the weekend, any business subsiding for the time being. But it was hard to imagine this desolate, industrial neighborhood as anything other than uninhabited, rusted padlocks hanging from every fence, the high windows of the warehouses broken and gaping in many spots, rotting wood pallets piled high near the road.

It was that much more surprising then, when the quiet sedan turned a corner and came upon a bustling scene: parked cars angled around the high sliding door of a warehouse, some clearly marked as official police vehicles while others were black and innocuous; people huddled in groups speaking in low voices, or busy with large, unwieldy cameras, or fussing with clear plastic bags that appeared to hold clothes, pens, every day items.

Emmett parked beyond the gate, rounding the car to open the door for Rozalina as I swung from my own spot in the back, firmly planting my feet on the cracked pavement. I had asked to see this. I had insisted. I lifted my gaze and was relieved to find Edward already at my side, his hand slipping into my own as we followed Emmett through the gate and into the concrete courtyard. He was greeted as a familiar face by many of the people present, and introduced us to a slew of grim, official looking men and women who all nodded briskly and respectfully in our direction.

One in particular took the lead, shaking my hand as he introduced himself as Detective Brady. His features were lined but clean shaven, nicotine stained teeth apparent when he spoke. "If you'll come this way." I forced myself to follow, hanging on tightly to Edward's hand as the detective, then Emmett and Rozalina disappeared into the dark interior of the warehouse.

Detective Brady was speaking, explaining that the license plates on the car that had crashed into the safe house had somehow been salvaged. "We were able to track down the original owner as the title had never been transferred." He led us further into the open space, my pupils adjusting to the reduced light, as he went on. "He said they paid in cash and he assumed they were drug dealers. He was just glad to be rid of the junker." The detective continued, but his voice was a blur, my mind attempting to take in the shadowed interior, to comprehend the motives that had driven Viktoriya to this extreme, to this end.

There was only a limp mattress on wooden pallets similar to those I'd seen on our drive to the area, elevated from the damp cold of the concrete floor. I couldn't help being reminded of Immanuel's simple, sagging cot in the cell outside the walls of the monastery at Zlatá Koruna, my throat constricting at the memory.

"…traced the serial number on Volkov's gun to the manufacturer but must have been bought from a dealer illegally, likely stolen…"

Shafts of light made their way through the high windows and I realized boards had likely been pulled down for that purpose. Dust motes swam through the weak rays, thick on air that remained musty despite the open warehouse door. A white poster on the far wall caught my eye, a bright spot in the dark space; I released Edward's hand to investigate, and felt my eyes widen as I neared. It was a shooting target, the anonymous silhouette of a person pockmarked with the evidence of Viktoriya's practice.

"We've collected all the shells and determined they match Viktoriya's gun," the detective called over to me.

I turned, knowing my face was pale, my hands shaking slightly with the reality of what I was seeing. "Right," I whispered, figuring I had to respond.

The detective turned back to Emmett, Rozalina and Edward, who was glancing worriedly in my direction. "It was the gas masks that gave them away. We scoured more than a dozen local Army Navy stores with the presumption that the sale, even if paid in cash, wouldn't be a common occurrence. And unlike the sale of the car, Viktoriya was present for the purchase."

"And the clerk remembered her," Edward concluded.

"The red hair," Detective Brady nodded, lips lifting in a grim smile. "The gas mask sale happened only a few miles from here—it allowed us to narrow our focus."

My eyes continued to drift around the room as the conversation resumed, taking in the steel beams above my head, the concrete floor beneath my feet, the random debris piled in corners. I couldn't imagine living here for however many days, plotting, planning, fixating. If Edward were to reject me, to dismiss me, would I go to such lengths?

I turned to him and found his gaze upon me, green eyes fixed as if trying to work out my thoughts. He crossed to my side, leaving the detective to further explain the investigation to Emmett and Rozalina, his stride purposeful. He didn't speak as he reached me, simply slipping a hand into my own. My own gaze was despairing, knowing how much I loved him, how much it would destroy me if he were to change his mind, if he were to leave.

My voice was a whisper when I finally spoke. "People do desperate things out of passion."

Edward abruptly shook his head, eyes tightening with the frown flashing across his brow. "We met twice, three times—this was not love."

"For you," I murmured, my gaze falling.

Edward's fingers were on my chin, lifting my face, forcing my eyes to his own. "Bella," his voice was firm. "I love you. More than anything. Don't you see…" The words trailed away, his tone frustrated. His hand fell from my chin though the other tightened around my fingers. "We should go," he insisted.

He tried to tug me away but I remained frozen, distracted by the arc of a flashlight swinging through the gloom, paralyzed by an eerie sense of déjà vu...my gaze seeing only the black, muffled silence of the catacomb before the glow of Edward's flashlight illuminated the darkness. The officer carrying the torch turned and I exhaled as the spell was broken, his portly figure clearly nothing like Edward's. He bent to a trunk on the far wall that I hadn't noticed in shadows, lifting its lid with a grunt.

He began shoveling the contents into the clear plastic bags I'd noticed the officers handling outside, and my breath caught as I noticed a crumpled mass of black shantung in his hands. "Edward!" I gasped, then, unable to speak further, mutely pointed.

His green eyes glanced down at me with concern, before following my finger to the officer and his array of evidence. Releasing my hand, he swiftly crossed to the man's side, speaking in a hushed, urgent tone. This caught Detective Brady's attention, breaking up his monologue as he turned, then moved to join the conversation.

I forced my feet to work, though the room seemed to wobble as I made my way over to Rozalina and Emmett. Her pale hand found my shoulder, blue eyes wide with worry as she saw my pale, pinched face, gaze darting over to the officers and Edward as the discussion apparently intensified. "What is…" she barely managed to begin the question before Edward was back at my side, the dress grasped in his hands, obscuring the white plaster of his cast.

"They'll need to catalog it as evidence but I can arrange to have it released to you—mailed back to you in Seattle." My gaze rested on the dress, the wrinkled fabric that had adorned my figure the night Edward and I had finally talked. Images flashed through my mind, everything that had led up to this point…the mad dash of careening around central Europe searching for the book, the sadness and denial of my return to Seattle and flight to Forks, and the fear and stress in the weeks after I'd learned Viktoriya had escaped.

My gaze lifted and found Edward's green eyes focused on me, intent, protective, ever ready to act as my shield, my savior. I finally spoke, filled with resolve. "No." I turned my head, taking in the sad, awful space. There was nothing here for me to discover, to understand—I would have to find a sense of closure on my own. I turned back to him, my voice firm when I spoke again. "I'm ready to put this behind me."

Much to Edward and Emmett's chagrin, the arrivals terminal at SeaTac was absolute insanity, the bright lights of flash bulbs bursting in my eyes as microphones were thrust towards me, strange voices shouting questions. I held up a hand to my eyes, trusting that the arm around my waist was guiding me in the right direction. I knew there was only one other instance in which I had been more grateful for Emmett's presence, but this was a firm second. His bulk blocked the majority of the reporters and journalists, deep voice firm as he pushed through the melee. "No comment. No comment. Excuse me. No comment."

A brusque voice shouted above the fray, my hand dropping and my head lifting with sudden recognition. "Dad?"

"Bells!" I could see him jockeying behind the press of men and women in sleek suits with too neat hair, his tanned features flashing into view before sinking behind a tall, overly tan man who I recognized from the local news.

"Emmett," I spoke up, grasping at his coat to try to slow his push through the mob. "My dad—he can't get through."

Emmett looked over his shoulder at me, brown eyes reassuring. "Where?"

Still shuffling forward, Edward's arm around my waist, I nodded to the left. "Over there."

Emmett lifted a muscled arm, "If you could let the gentleman through." His voice was so firm and authoritative that the crowd parted instantly, the reporters looking on with harried curiosity as my dad shouldered through to my side. I gazed up at him with relief, then gasped with surprise as he enveloped me in a fierce hug.

Camera flashes abruptly exploded, my eyes squeezing shut at the sudden, blinding brightness. I embraced Charlie in return, tears of relief and joy pricking my eyes. I forced myself to blink them back, releasing my dad reluctantly as he did the same. Emmett continued forward, the entire affair having taken less than a minute, my breath caught in my lungs at the madness of it all.

Edward's arm snaked back around my waist, ever protective. Charlie, on my opposite side, spoke above my head, his gruff voice every inch the equally protective father.

"So you're Edward Masen."

I tripped over my own feet at Edward's response and would have tumbled head long into the floor had it not been for the strong arm around my waist.

"Yes, sir, I'm the man who's going to marry your daughter."


	37. The Auction

Thank you to everyone who waited patiently for the final chapter. A new fic should be along before too long. Thank you to everyone who offered to beta/pre-read!

The plot of "Incunabula: Or The Golden Legend" is entirely mine while any dialogue or characters from the Twilight series belong to S. Meyers. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_Be joyful always._

_Thessalonians 5:16_

**Thirty-six**

The warm glow of the sconces lent the ballroom of the Arctic Hotel a close, shadowed feel despite the high, domed ceiling overhead. The light was muted but not dull, a golden yellow that flattered the features of the auction's attendees.

My arms were crossed tightly around my waist, unable to curb the anxiety I unfailingly felt in these circumstances. Though there was no need for me to place any bids on the items up for auction, the festive, expectant atmosphere had me on edge, restraining the urge to tap my foot or gnaw my bottom lip. I knew Edward would pick up on my nerves and needlessly worry as to the cause; nothing, however, could hide the flush in my cheeks.

"Excited?" The man in question was at my side, offering me a glass of champagne as his free hand landed on my elbow.

"Hmm," I lifted my chin with the wordless answer, gaze darting over the rapidly filling ballroom.

"You know I'll donate anything I win to the university," Edward's voice was cajoling, his fingers sliding up my arm in a manner that only made my cheeks brighten.

"That's not it," I quietly answered, eyes falling to my feet. I didn't want to admit that I felt out of place, that I had already tripped nearly twice in the black heels Alice had bought that past weekend, that I knew none of the people before me in their tuxedos and expensive gowns, and that the covert stares we kept receiving weren't helping. I wasn't sure whether the stares and occasional whisper were due to the still recent misadventure in London, or because of my newly elevated status as Edward's fiancée.

After all, to admit those things would be admitting that perhaps I didn't belong at Edward's side at all. My back straightened at the thought. No, I would grit my teeth, make small talk, avoid the more rude stares, and throw the heels away when I got home.

"The minute the auction for the incunabula is complete, we can leave," Edward murmured close to my ear.

My eyes flew up to his. "You don't have to do that," I protested, wondering if he could somehow read my mind. "We can stay as long as you like."

"Edward, my good man!" Any response he might have been forming was interrupted by the approaching gentleman whose round shape was matched by a round, red face. "Always great to see you at these events!"

"Good evening, Marcus," Edward nodded ever so slightly before he turned to me. "This is my fiancée, Isabella Swan. Bella, this is Marcus Mirvolt." I vaguely recognized the name—one of the early Microsoft pioneers who'd since bought several professional sports teams and now acted as the head of his own foundation.

"Nice to meet you," I smiled, hoping it didn't appear too unnerved.

"My pleasure!" He responded jovially, vigorously shaking my hand. "Though I have to admit the news caught me—and I think everyone else—by surprise! No idea you had someone hidden in the wings, sly fellow!" He narrowed his eyes at us both and I nearly expected him to wink.

"Hardly hidden," Edward's smile was polite, his grip growing firm around my upper arm. "How's Diane?" He rapidly changed the subject, clearly uncaring whether it was obvious.

"Great, as always. Trying to get the youngest ready to go away to college in a few weeks—Dartmouth, you know…" The conversation went on for a few more minutes before the rotund man excused himself.

After he was out of earshot, Edward leaned towards me again, his lips tantalizingly close to my ear. "He usually hits me up for donations to his favorite causes. I'm surprised he didn't do so this time—especially without Emmett to ward the sycophants away." He and Rozalina were on their honeymoon after a spur-of-the moment wedding in Las Vegas.

"Too distracted by your hidden fiancée," I couldn't resist teasing, smiling up at him.

"Hardly hidden," Edward repeated firmly, his emerald eyes steady as they met mine. "It's no concern of theirs if I keep you to myself."

I couldn't resist snorting, "You mean if I prefer to sit at home watching _Mythbusters_ repeats?"

Edward laughed in response, head thrown back, the sound so genuine that I couldn't help smiling widely in response. For the first few weeks after we had all returned from London, I'd stayed with him at his penthouse; this was partly because I had yet to fully adjust to feeling safe again, and partly because the security kept the lingering journalists at bay. I'd attempted to reassert my independence by moving back in with Alice a short time later, and had been pleasantly surprised when Edward didn't fight me on it.

"I understand things between us have been far from normal," he'd said, running a hand through his hair. "I want you to do whatever is going to give you a sense of normalcy." I'd thrown my arms around him in response, thrilled a conversation I'd been dreading hadn't ended in arguments and frustration.

Of course, I'd ended up staying at his penthouse nearly every night since then—to the point that Alice had started teasing me about leasing out my room. Even though Edward and I did little besides lounge around and head to bed far too early, I couldn't bring myself to stay away.

My gaze darted over the crowd again, realizing with a slight flush that Edward's laugh had drawn more stares, dropping my chin at the attention. "Don't be shy, Miss Svan," Jasper teased as he ducked through the melee, crossing to Edward's side. "They're probably just marveling at this guy looking anything besides grimly obligated."

Edward grinned at this, reaching out a hand to grasp Jasper's in greeting. "Maybe I should hand over attending these things to you," he mused.

"God knows Alice would be up for it," Jasper replied. "I know she's around here somewhere…" He craned his curly head, trying to discern his petite girlfriend among the crowd. Jasper had chosen to stay put after the exhibit had gone on the road for a national tour of major museums, unwilling to leave Alice for the length of time such a commitment would require. He'd found various consulting jobs largely through Edward and my own contacts, but had yet to find anything permanent.

"That's not a bad idea," I quietly replied. It had been the role I'd played for Dr. Cullen, and one I'd never been entirely comfortable claiming.

"After all, you have your _Mythbusters_," Edward teased, his fingers dancing along my ribs.

"Oh, as if you're doing anything exciting—pretending to ignore the television while reviewing your financial reports," I shot back, smacking at his hand.

"You guys are like two teenagers," Jasper drawled, a grin playing over his lips.

"As if you can talk," I protested. He and Alice had made a trip to Louisiana and Texas over the holidays, meeting one another's families and, according to late night calls from Alice, suffering terribly while sleeping in separate rooms. I blushed at the thought, recalling Charlie's response to Edward's claim that Edward and I were engaged. His tan face had gone a mottled red that had me worried he'd forgotten to breathe. When he'd finally spoken, the words were a strangled mutter.

"We'll see about that."

Of course, this had been the exact phrase to get my back up; I couldn't quite determine who I was most annoyed with as I'd stumbled through the airport terminal and out to the parking garage: Edward for presuming my response would be 'yes' or my father for thinking he had any say over the matter. I'd fumed silently in the car for the entirety of the ride into Seattle, arms crossed over my chest, glaring at them both as Edward calmly relayed everything that had happened, and Charlie asked clarifying questions.

It wasn't until we'd arrived at the apartment I shared with Alice that I'd spoken; Edward quietly offered to give me time to catch up with my dad and I'd snapped, "Oh, so you'll leave that one up to me then?"

I'd been surprised to feel Charlie's hand on my own, tugging me from the car. "C'mon, Bells," he'd gruffly muttered, stepping out into the cool grey northwest day. I'd been so bemused by his response that I'd simply followed, dumbly standing on the curb at his side. It wasn't until the town car had pulled away that Charlie spoke again, gazing to the horizon, apparently deep in thought. "I think that fellow would give his life for you." He'd paused, his eyes focusing and meeting my own. "That's once in a lifetime stuff, you know?"

Sudden tears had pricked my eyes, wondering at my childish mutiny in the face of everything I'd gone through with Edward. And did I truly expect anything different from my high-handed CFO?

"You're right," I'd quietly replied.

I glanced down at the sparkling ring on my left hand, feeling silly for the warmth that crept up my throat at the sight. It glittered even in the weak golden light of the Arctic Hotel's sconces, the rich weave of diamonds taking up nearly the entirety of my first knuckle.

"I see that." The teasing whisper came from my left, small hands suddenly grasping my wrist and squeezing in excited greeting.

"Alice," I smiled down at my roommate, my blush intensifying at having been caught admiring my engagement ring.

"My little dervish," Jasper added, slinking an arm around her waist. She was in her element, her tiny frame garbed in a sleek silver sheath, strappy stilettos adorning her pedicured feet.

"Sorry I'm late," she added. "I couldn't decide between the snakeskin heels or the gladiators."

"And which ones did you go with?" I asked, squinting down at her feet.

"The gladiators, silly," Alice replied. Jasper laughed, landing a kiss on her temple.

She had asked me to tell her the story of the engagement a dozen times before I'd finally begged her to stop asking for more detail. "I just can't believe he tossed a ring that valuable in a book!"

"It was tied to the bookmark," I'd sighed.

"But it's an _old _bookmark!" Alice had protested. "It could have frayed and the ring could have rolled around behind the shelves for eternity!"

"He told me which book he wanted me to read."

"But you could have said, 'yeah, sure' and then gone back to eating ice cream or whatever it is you do over at his place all night. You could have put off reading it for weeks…or months!"

I'd sighed again. Alice hadn't even registered that the book Edward had told me I should check out was a prayer book that had belonged to Isabella of Bourbon, so rare that he hadn't wanted to include it in the exhibit. "It was my first rare book purchase," he'd confessed. Intrigued, I had wandered into his library after dinner, retreating into the air tight vault where he kept his most prized pieces, and found the tiny prayer book filed amongst the glass cases there. My gaze had been instantly caught by the flashing bauble dancing from the faded riband threaded through the prayer books' pages, opening the case with shaking hands and carefully freeing the ring. It was only when I was holding the jeweled circlet in my hand that I turned, the hair on my nape prickling with the feeling of being watched.

Edward had been leaning in the frame of the heavy vault door, green gaze hesitant. "I understand if it's still too soon—"

He hadn't been able to get any further words out as I flung myself in his direction, shutting him up with a kiss.

The crowd around us began to shift, the murmur of conversation and laughter intensifying. "Ooo, I think it's starting," Alice's eyes widened in anticipation.

"Shall we?" Edward asked, angling out his arm for my hand.

"Of course," I replied, placing my hand on his sleeve and smiling up at him.

Finally, the auction was beginning.


End file.
